THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


MIRIAM, 


JOANNA  OF  NAPLES, 


OTHER  PIECES  IN  VERSE  AND  PROSE. 


BY 


LOUISA    J.    HALL. 


BOSTON: 

WM.    CROSBY    AND   H.    P.    NICHOLS, 

111  WASHINGTON  STREET. 

1850. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1849,  by 

E.  B.    HALL, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


CAMBRIDGE: 
MKTCALT     AND    COMPANY, 

PRINTERS   TO   THE   UNIVERSITY. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

MIRIAM:  A  DRAMATIC  POEM   ......  1 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

A  DRAMATIC  FRAGMENT 115 

TO  MY  MOTHER'S  MEMORY           .....  132 

OMNIPRESENCE         ........  134 

THE  PEARL-DIVER'S  SONG 136 

ON  FOR  EVER 139 

BANNOCKBURN     .         .         .         .          .         .         .         .  141 

THE  SICKLY  BABE           .         .         .         .         .         .         .  145 

MY    WATCH 147 

JUSTICE  AND  MERCY 150 

LINES  ON  CHANNING 152 

THE  BABY'S  COMPLAINT          ......  154 

JOANNA  OF  NAPLES 157 

ELIZABETH  CARTER 349 

THE  SILVER  BELL 397 


112; 


THE     REVEREND 

ALEXANDER   YOUNG, 

VORMFKT.Y    HKR    PASTOR,    AM)    ALWAYS    HER    FRIEND, 

THE   FOLLOWING    PAGES 

ARE    RESPECTFULLY    AND    GRATEFULLY 

INSCRIBED 
BY  THE   AUTHOR. 


PREFACE. 


THE  following  sketch  was  begun  in  the  summer 
of  1825,  and  finished  in  the  summer  ensuing.  It 
was  commenced  in  the  indulgence  of  an  early  pro 
pensity  for  beguiling  leisure  hours  by  the  pen,  and 
was  completed  for  the  entertainment  of  a  small  cir 
cle  of  friends.  The  author  has  been  repeatedly 
urged  to  publish  it  ;  but  as  it  never  formed  any  part 
of  her  plan  to  attempt  a  regular  tragedy,  and  as  she 
is  fully  aware  of  its  deficiencies  even  as  a  dra 
matic  poem,  she  has  allowed  it  to  slumber  in  the 
safe  obscurity  of  manuscript  for  a  longer  period  than 
is  prescribed  by  Horatian  authority,  though  without 
obeying  the  other  portion  of  the  Roman  critic's 
injunction.  It  is  with  great  self-distrust  that  she  is 
at  last  persuaded  to  submit  it  to  the  fearful  ordeal 
of  publication ;  feeling  that,  if  neglect  or  severe  crit- 


6  MIKI  AM. 

icism  should  decide  the  time  spent  in  its  composi 
tion  to  have  been  ill  employed,  she  must  hencefor 
ward  conscientiously  resign  pursuits  that  have  till 
now  lent  a  charm  to  many  a  solitary  hour.  The 
lapse  of  years  has  already  cooled  her  imagination, 
and  taught  her  that  exertions  whose  tendency  might 
be  more  practical  and  useful  would  now  interest  her 
feelings  more  deeply.  She  gives  this  early  effort  to 
the  press  by  the  advice  of  those  whose  judgment  — 
if  unbiased  by  friendship  —  she  must  highly  re 
spect.  If  warned  by  the  result  to  abstain  in  future 
from  similar  attempts,  she  will  submit  with  defer 
ence  to  the  injunction. 

It  may  not  be  unnecessary  to  state,  that  although 
the  characters  in  the  following  scenes  are  imaginary, 
the  author  aimed  at  an  illustration  of  the  state  of 
things  which  actually  existed  when  Christianity  was 
struggling,  almost  for  life,  under  the  persecution  of 
triumphant  Heathenism. 

May  1st,  1837. 


PREFACE 

TO    THE    SECOND    EDITION. 


THE  author  of  Miriam  deeply  regrets  having 
given  her  early  production  to  the  press  in  1837, 
without  such  revision  as  her  respect  for  the  public 
demanded.  Many  errors  of  carelessness,  especially 
in  rhythm,  bore  testimony  to  its  having  been  writ 
ten  without  a  thought  of  publication  ;  arid  when 
at  last  she  yielded  to  solicitation,  and  in  a  tempo 
rary  access  of  co'urage  gave  up  her  manuscript  to 
a  friend,  the  state  of  her  eyesight  forbade  a  delib 
erate  examination  of  its  pages.  It  would  have 
been  advisable  to  have  waited  a  few  months  ;  — 
in  that  case  probably  the  work  would  never  have 
emerged  from  privacy.  Her  dread  of  publication 
would  have  returned  upon  her  with  fresh  strength, 
as  she  again  contemplated  some  graver  faults,  which 


8  MIRIAM. 

are  so  interwoven  with  the  very  texture  of  the 
poem  as  to  be  incurable.  The  voice  of  criticism 
has  pronounced  upon  them  no  censures  so  severe 
as  those  her  own  judgment  long  since  whispered. 
Whilst  acknowledging  the  justice  of  these  strict 
ures,  —  in  all  instances  kindly  expressed,  —  she  has 
been  induced,  by  the  unlooked-for  commendations 
that  have  greeted  her  little  work,  to  put  forth  a 
second  edition ;  but  this  she  has  not  done,  without 
first  attempting,  in  the  following  pages,  to  repair 
whatever  errors  were  susceptible  of  correction. 

September  20/A,  1838. 


CHARACTERS. 


THRASENO,  an  aged  Syrian,  —  a  Christian. 

MIRIAM,  his  daughter. 

EUPHAS,  his  son. 

Piso,  a  noble  Roman,  a  persecutor  of  the  Christians. 

PAULUS,  his  son. 

CHRISTIANS. 


SCENE.  — Rome. 
TIME.  —  One  night,  from  sunset  to  sunrise. 


MIRIAM. 


SCENE   I. 

The  Garden  of  THRASENO,  at  Rome.  —  THRASENO,  EUPHAS. 

ETJPHAS. 

MY  father,  markest  thou  ?  along  the  west 
The  golden  footsteps  of  departed  day 
Are  fading  fast ;  in  yonder  dusky  sky, 
Yon  far  and  boundless  vault,  one  lonely  star 
Is  faintly  twinkling  forth.     The  perfumed  air 
Of  evening,  sighing  'mid  the  drooping  leaves 
And  closing  flowers,  breathes  fresh.     It  is  the  hour. 
At  early  nightfall  were  we  bidden  forth. 

THRASENO. 

Ay  !  in  the  dim  and  silent  hour  of  dusk, 
As  if  to  do  some  deed  that  conscious  day 
Might  blush  to  look  upon,  must  we  steal  forth 
To  bear  the  sacred  dust  of  him  we  loved 
To  its  ignoble  rest.     In  some  drear  cave, 


12  MIRIAM. 

Some  dark  and  subterraneous  abode, 

Hid  from  the  common  light  and  air  of  heaven, 

Haunt  of  the  barking  wolf  or  coiling  snake, 

Our  temples  and  our  sepulchres  must  rise  ; 

And  there,  beneath  the  torches'  ghastly  glare, 

Few,  sad,  and  fearful,  must  the  pious  meet 

To  raise  in  tones  subdued  the  solemn  hymn, 

Breathe  with  white,  quivering  lips  the  voice  of  prayer, 

And  bend  the  trembling  knee  unto  the  One, 

The  pure  and  living  God  !  and  wildly  start 

When  sighs  the  breeze  along  the  cavern's  roof, 

And  sways  the  torch-light's  red  and  fitful  blaze. 

Is  this  to  worship  thee,  O  God  !  with  thoughts 

That  mount  imperfect  and  are  half  weighed  down 

By  dread  of  earthly  dangers  ?  with  stern  eyes 

Glancing  around,  lest  unawares  the  foe 

Burst  on  our  simple  rites,  and  quench  in  blood 

The  flame  just  kindling  on  thine  altars  fit, 

Meek,  holy  hearts ! 

Enter  MIRIAM. 
EUPHAS. 

Sister !  thy  cheek  is  pale, 
Though  all  day  long  a  deep  and  hectic  tinge 
Hath  sat  in  brightness  on  one  crimsoned  spot, 
Lending  unearthly  radiance  to  thine  eyes, 
But  telling  sadly  of  the  waste  within. 
Fair  as  thou  wast,  sweet  sister,  ne'er  till  late 


MIRIAM.  13 

The  rose  hath  glowed  upon  thy  pure,  pale  cheek ; 

And  I  have  watched  the  strange  and  boding  flush 

Mounting  and  kindling  wildly  there  at  times, 

And  fading  then  unto  a  deathly  white, 

Until  I  feel  too  well  that  not  as  yet 

Is  it  the  bloom  of  health  or  happiness. 

And  thy  dark  eyes  that  flash  unwonted  fires  ! 

The  glow,  —  the  flash,  —  my  sister,  speak  too  plain 

A  fevered  blood,  or  bosom  ill  at  ease. 

MIRIAM. 

Has  thy  young  eye,  my  brother,  learnt  so  well 
To  read  the  soul's  deep  workings  in  the  face  ? 
And  have  thy  sixteen  summers  taught  thee  thus 
To  trace  the  secrets  of  a  heart  as  pure, 
Though  not  perchance  as  open  and  as  blest, 
As  thine  ? 

THRASENO. 

My  child  !  how  can  there  be  a  grief 
In  that  young  heart  of  thine,  a  secret  woe, 
Thy  father  and  thy  brother  may  not  share  ? 
Around  thee  I  have  marked  the  shadow  fall, 
And  hourly  gazed  upon  thy  wasting  form, 
Until  my  heart  grew  sick,  yet  did  not  dream 
That  other  clouds  than  those  which  overhang 
Thine  injured  sect  were  brooding  on  thy  soul, 
Once  the  pure  mirror  of  a  father's  smiles. 
Can  it  be  so  ?     It  is  as  if  a  cloud 

2 


14  MIRIAM. 

From  the  deep  bosom  of  a  peaceful  lake 
Should  rise,  and  sullen  hang  upon  its  face, 
Hiding  it  from  the  bright  and  smiling  skies. 
O,  say,  my  child,  there  is  no  secret  grief, 
No  canker  sorrow  eating  at  the  core 
Of  my  sweet  bud. 

MIRIAM. 

* 

My  father !  I  am  ill. 
A  weight  is  on  my  spirits,  and  I  feel 
The  fountain  of  existence  drying  up, 
Shrinking  I  know  not  where,  like  waters  lost 
Amid  the  desert  sands.     Nay,  grow  not  pale  ! 
I  have  felt  thus,  and  thought  each  secret  spring 
Of  life  was  failing  fast  within  me.      Then 
In  saddest  willingness  I  could  have  died. 
There  have  been  hours  I  would  have  quitted  you, 
And  all  that  life  hath  dear  and  beautiful, 
Without  one  wish  to  linger  in  its  smiles  : 
My  summons  would  have  called  a  weary  soul 
Out  of  a  heavy  bondage.     But  this  day 
A  better  hope  hath  dawned  upon  my  mind. 
A  high  and  pure  resolve  is  nourished  there, 
And  even  now  it  sheds  upon  my  breast 
That  holy  peace  it  hath  not  known  so  long. 
This  night,  —  ay,  in  a  few  brief  hours,  perchance,  — 
It  will  know  calm  once  more  —  (or  break  at  once  !) 

[Aside 


MIRIAM.  15 

THRASENO. 

And  is  this  all,  my  child  !  all  thou  wilt  trust 

To  loving  hearts,  wherein  thou  art  enshrined 

The  best,  most  precious  of  all  earthly  things, 

And  second  held  to  nothing,  —  save  our  faith  ? 

And  must  we  look  on  thee  as  on  a  book 

Close  sealed,  yet  full  of  hidden  mysteries 

That  may  affect  our  dearest  happiness  ? 

Miriam  !  it  is  not  well.     Dark  mystery 

Doth  hang  round  nothing  pure,  —  save  God  alone  ! 

MIRIAM. 

O,  no !  it  is  not  well.     A  voice  within 
Full  oft  hath  whispered  me,  "  It  is  not  well." 
And  yet 

THRASENO. 

"  And  yet  "  !  —  I  dare  not  question  thee. 
A  nameless  fear  is  pressing  on  my  soul. 

EUPHAS. 

Speak,  Miriam  !     Seest  thou  not  the  gathering  shade 
Upon  our  father's  brow  ?  —  O,  speak  !  although 
Each  word  in  scorching  flame  should  grave  itself 
Upon  the  hearts  that  love  thee  with  full  trust. 

MIRIAM. 

Euphas  !  what  deemest  thou  I  have  to  tell  ? 

A  wild  and  terrible  suspicion  sits 

Within  thy  troubled  eye.     And  can  it  be 

That  hearts  so  young  and  pure  can  dream  of  things 


16  MIRIAM. 

So  horrible  ?     My  father !  yon  bright  stars 
Are  o'er  us  with  their  quiet  light ;  the  dews 
Are  falling  softly  from  the  cloudless  sky  ; 
The  cool  and  fragrant  breath  of  evening  waves 
Our  rustling  vine-leaves  ;  —  yet  not  one  of  these 
Is  purer  than  the  bosom  of  thy  child.     O  father  ! 
Brother  !  —  ye  do  believe  me  ? 

EUPHAS. 

Do  I  not  ? 
I  could  not  live,  and  doubt  thy  truth. 

THRASENO. 

I  know, 

I  know,  my  child,  that  thou  art  innocent 
As  native  purity  and  steady  faith 
Can  make  the  heart  of  frail  and  erring  man. 
But  why  should  darkness  hang  around  the  steps 
Of  one  that  loves  the  light  ?     Why  wilt  thou  not 
Let  in  the  beams  of  day  upon  thy  soul, 
To  mingle  with  the  kindred  brightness  there  ? 

MIRIAM. 

Urge  me  not  now.     I  cannot,  —  cannot  yet. 
Have  I  not  told  you  that  a  starlike  gleam 
Was  rising  on  my  darkened  mind  ?     When  Hope 
Shall  sit  upon  the  tossing  waves  of  thought, 
As  broods  the  halcyon  on  the  troubled  deep, 
Then,  if  my  spirit  be  not  blighted,  wrecked, 
Crushed,  by  the  storm,  I  will  unfold  my  griefs. 


MIRIAM. 

But  until  then,  —  and  long  it  will  not  be  !  — 
Yet  in  that  brief,  brief  time  my  soul  must  bear 
A  fiercer,  deadlier  struggle  still !  —  Ye  dear  ones ! 
Look  not  upon  me  thus,  but  in  your  thoughts, 
When  ye  go  forth  unto  your  evening  prayers, 
O,  bear  me  up  to  Heaven  with  all  my  grief. 
Pray  that  my  holy  courage  may  not  fail. 
Mark  ye  my  words  ? 

THRASENO. 

Miriam,  come  with  us  ! 
I  have  beheld  thee  sick,  and  sorrowful, 
But  never  thus. 

MIRIAM. 

Father !  I  cannot  go. 

t 

EUPHAS. 

Know'st  thou  last  night  the  long-tried  Stephen  went 
Unto  his  peaceful  rest  ?  and  we  this  eve 
Are  bidden  to  the  humble  burial, 
Shrouded  in  night,  of  him  whose  virtues  claimed 
At  least  such  tribute  from  a  Christian  heart. 
Sweet  sister  !  come  thou  forth  with  us.     I  know 
Thou  wouldst  not  slight  the  poor  remains  of  him 
Whose  spotless  life  thou  didst  revere  and  love. 

MIRIAM. 

A  ripe  and  goodly  sheaf  hath  gently  fallen. 
Let  peace  be  in  the  good  man's  obsequies  ; 
I  will  not  carry  there  a  troubled  soul. 
2* 


18  MIRIAM. 

THRASENO. 

Where  wouldst  thou  seek  for  peace  or  quietness, 
If  not  beside  the  altar  of  thy  God  ? 

MIRIAM. 

Within  these  mighty  walls  of  sceptred  Rome 
A  thousand  temples  rise  unto  her  gods, 
Bearing  their  lofty  domes  unto  the  skies, 
Graced  with  the  proudest  pomp  of  earth  ;  their  shrines 
Glittering  with  gems,  their  stately  colonnades, 
Their  dreams  of  genius  wrought  into  bright  forms, 
Instinct  with  grace  and  godlike  majesty, 
Their  ever-smoking  altars,  white-robed  priests, 
And  all  the  pride  of  gorgeous  sacrifice. 
And  yet  these  things  are  naught.     Rome's  prayers  ascend 
To  greet  the  unconscious  skies,  in  the  blue  void 
Lost,  like  the  floating  breath  of  frankincense, 
And  find  no  hearing  or  acceptance  there. 
And  yet  there  is  an  Eye  that  ever  marks 
Where  its  own  people  pay  their  simple  vows, 
Though  to  the  rocks,  the  caves,  the  wilderness, 
Scourged  by  a  stern  and  ever-watchful  foe. 
There  is  an  Ear  that  hears  the  voice  of  prayer 
Rising  from  lonely  spots  where  Christians  meet, 
Although  it  stir  not  more  the  sleeping  air 
Than  the  soft  waterfall,  or  forest  breeze. 
Think'st  thou,  my  father,  this  benignant  God 
Will  close  his  ear,  and  turn  in  wrath  away 


MIRIAM. 

From  the  poor  sinful  creature  of  his  hand, 
Who  breathes  in  solitude  her  humble  prayer  ? 
Think'st  thou  He  will  not  hear  me,  should  I  kneel 
Here  in  the  dust  beneath  his  starry  sky, 
And  strive  to  raise  my  voiceless  thoughts  to  him, 
Making  an  altar  of  my  broken  heart  ? 

THRASENO. 

He  will !  it  were  a  sin  to  doubt  it,  love. 

But  yet —  must  then  the  funeral  hymn  arise, 

And  thy  melodious  voice  be  wanting  there  ? 

Wilt  thou  alone  of  all  our  little  band 

Believe  me,  child,  caprice  and  idle  whim 
Are  born  of  selfishness,  and  aptly  nursed 
In  youthful  minds,  where  sin  of  deeper  dye 
Would  shrink  from  entering  at  open  gates, 
Awed  by  the  light  of  purity  within. 

MIRIABI. 
That  voice  is  chiding  me !  that  eye  is  stern  ! 

EUPHAS. 

He  keenly  feels  each  pang  that  he  inflicts. 

MIRIAM. 

Dear  father !  hear  me,  then,  since  I  must  speak  ! 

This  evening  hath  its  task,  a  task  of  tears, 

And  strange  and  spirit-crushing  agony  ; 

And  here,  even  here,  before  yon  stars  have  set, 

It  must  be  wrought !    Wilt  thou  not  leave  me,  then  ? 

Eyes  such  as  thine,  my  father,  must  not  see 


20  MIRIAM. 

The  stragglings  of  my  soul  with  evil  things. 

But  they  shall  see  me,  and  in  triumph  too, 

When,  by  the  strength  that  God  this  night  hath  given, 

I  greet  thee  next  in  innocence  and  peace, 

And  proudly  tell  thee  how  the  battle  went. 

Thou  mayst  not,  canst  not,  aid  me  ;  but  alone  — 

(Nay,  not  alone,  O  God  !)  —  my  spirit  must 

Be  disciplined,  and  wrung,  and  exercised, 

Until  I  am,  my  father,  what  I  was,  — 

A  child  that  had  no  secrets  for  thy  ear. 

Wilt  thou  not  go  without  me,  this  one  night  ? 

I  tell  thee  on  this  boon  my  peace  depends : 

Peace  !  nay,  far  more  !  more  than  all  earthly  peace  ! 

Wild  as  I  seem,  my  sire,  trust  me  this  once, 

And  when  the  dawn  next  gilds  yon  lofty  shrine, 

Girt  with  its  triple  row  of  statues  fair, 

It  shall  not  greet  one  marble  brow  or  cheek 

More  tranquil  or  more  pure  than  will  be  mine  ! 

THRASENO. 

Then  on  this  promise,  love,  will  I  go  forth. 

Thy  bud  of  life  hath  blown  beneath  mine  eye  ; 

I  cannot  look  on  thee,  and  dream  that  guile 

Or  guilt  is  on  that  lip,  or  in  that  heart. 

But  with  a  saddened  soul,  and  with  a  tear 

I  cannot  check,  my  child,  I  thus  impress 

My  parting  kiss  upon  thy  brow.     Farewell ! 

God  reads  thy  mystery,  —  though  I  may  not. 

May  He  be  with  thee  in  thy  solitude  !  [Exit. 


MIRIAM.  21 

MIRIAM. 

Best,  best  of  fathers  !  fare  thee  well !  —  thy  thoughts, 

Thy  prayers,  I  know  are  with  me  still,  and  may 

Bestead  me  in  the  trial  which  draws  nigh. 

My  brother  !  must  I  turn  to  thee  with  tears 

To  claim  the  one  poor  boon  of  solitude  ? 

Look  !  the  bright  west  is  fading  ;  in  the  east 

The  rising  moon  uprears  her  blood-red  disk, 

As  if  a  distant  city  were  in  flames 

Upon  yon  dun  horizon's  utmost  verge. 

Why  lingerest  thou  ?     Why  lookest  thou  on  me 

With  such  a  fixed,  sad,  monitory  gaze  ? 

ETTPHAS. 

Sister  !  I  too  go  forth,  but  with  a  weight 
Pressing  upon  my  heart.     Would  I  knew  more,  — 
Or  less  !     These  strange  and  sad  presentiments 
Are  not  the  coinage  of  a  sickly  mind, 
An  idle  fancy,  prone  to  dream  of  ill. 
Things  that  these  eyes  have  seen  have  left  behind 
Their  deep,  enduring  shadows  on  my  soul. 
I  could  not  quit  thee  now,  were  there  not  yet 
Within  my  heart  an  ever-springing  hope, 
A  confidence  that  hath  grown  slowly  up, 
Even  from  my  birth  around  my  heart-strings  twined, 
Which  whispers  still  of  peace  and  purity, 
And  lets  me  think  of  naught  but  holiness 
Whene'er  I  gaze  on  thee.     Slowly,  alas  ! 


22  MIRIAM. 

Doubt  and^suspicion  rise  in  brothers'  hearts. 
Thou  weepest,  Miriam  !  wilt  thou,  then,  relent, 
And  let  me  bide  with  thee  this  dreadful  eve  ? 
If  its  dire  task  be  good 

MIRIAM. 

Euphas  !  away  ! 

And  quickly  too  !  —  (Great  God  !  my  Paulus  comes,  — 
And  should  they  meet !)  —  O,  I  conjure  thee,  boy  ! 
Ay,  in  the  dust,  and  on  my  knees,  implore 
That  thou  wilt  leave  me  instantly  !  —  Go  now, 
If  there  is  aught  in  thy  poor  sister's  voice,  — 
Her  supplication,  —  that  may  win  one  boon  ! 

EUPHAS. 

Sister,  I  go  !  —  I  would  have  warned  thee  more, 
Thou  wilful  one  !  —  but  God  be  with  thee  now  !  — 

Temptations  that  are  sought Nay,  look  not  thus  ! 

But,  O,  be  not  too  bold  in  innocence  ! 

A  young,  confiding  heart  at  once  locked  up,  — 

A  self-reliance  that  rejects  such  aid 

As  from  a  loving  brother's  hand Na,y,  then  ! 

I  cannot  answer  tears !  —  Shouldst  thou  repent 

Farewell !.  [Exit. 

MIRIAM. 

Repent!  not  till  my  bleeding  heart 
Forget  the  faith  for  which  it  yields  its  all !  — 
Great  God  !  the  hour  is  come,  and  how  unfit 
Is  in  her  native  weakness  thy  poor  worm 


MIRIAM.  23 

To  meet  its  agony  !     I  feel  the  peace, 
The  holy  resolution  I  had  nursed, 
Dying  away  within  me,  and  my  prayers, 
I  fear,  —  I  fear,  —  have  not  been  heard  !  —  Now,  Father  ! 
God  of  yon  sparkling  heaven !  leave  me  not  now 
Unto  the  sole  support  of  human  strength  !  — 
Was  it  my  fancy  ?  —  was  it  but  the  breeze, 
That  sudden  showered  the  rose-leaves  in  its  sport  ? 
O,  no  !  —  he  comes,  —  and  life  seems  failing  me  ! 
Enter  PAULUS. 
PAULUS. 

Chide  me  not,  love,  although  the  moon  hath  risen, 

And  melts  her  way  along  those  fleecy  clouds, 

Climbing  midway  unto  her  zenith  point. 

My  father  gives  this  night  a  stately  feast, 

Graced  with  the  presence  of  Rome's  proudest  lords  ; 

And  there,  within  the  long  and  lofty  hall, 

O'ercanopied  with  silver  tissue,  lit 

By  myriads  of  golden  lamps,  that,  fed, 

With  scented  oils,  pour  light  and  fragrance  round, 

Listless  I  lay,  engarlanded  with  flowers, — 

And  roving,  in  my  rapt  and  secret  thoughts, 

Hither,  where  thou  in  perfect  loveliness 

Sat'st  like  a  Dryad,  'neath  the  open  sky, 

Waiting  thy  truant  lover :  till  at  last, 

Weary  and  sick  of  all  that  met  my  gaze, 

Heedless  of  guests  or  frowning  sire,  I  rose, 


24  MIRIAM. 

And,  swifter  than  the  young  and  untamed  steed 

Flies  with  the  wind  across  his  own  free  plains, 

I  sped  to  her  from  whom  alone  I  learned 

All  that  my  spirit  ever  knew  of  love. 

And  what  that  love  is,  Miriam,  thou  canst  tell, 

Since  for  thy  sake  I  lay  my  laurels  down 

To  wreathe  the  myrtle  round  these  unworn  brows, 

Careless  of  warlike  fame  and  earth's  renown.  — 

But  how  !  thy  cheeks  —  thy  very  lips  —  are  pale  ! 

By  moonlight  paler  than  yon  marble  nymph 

Reclining  graceful  o'er  her  streaming  urn. 

Turn  hither,  love,  and  let  thy  Paulus  read 

If  grief  or  anger  sit  upon  thy  brow. 

Thy  silence,  thine  averted  glances,  strike 

With  dread  ^nspeakable  my  inmost  soul. 

No  word  of  welcome  ?  —  Gods  !  what  meaneth  this  ? 

Never,  except  in  dreams,  have  I  beheld 

Such  deep  and  dreadful  meaning  in  thine  eye, 

Such  agony  upon  thy  quivering  lip  ! 

Speak,  Miriam  !  breathe  one  .blessed  word  of  life  ; 

For  in  the  middle  watch  of  yester-night 

Even  thus  I  saw  a  dim  and  shadowy  ghost 

Standing  beneath  the  moon's  uncertain  light, 

So  mute,  —  so  motionless,  —  so  changed,  —  and  yet 

So  like  to  thee  ! 

MIRIAM. 
My  Paulus  ! 


MIRIAM.  25 

PAULUS. 

'T  is  thy  voice  ! 

Praised  be  the  gods !  it  never  seemed  so  sweet. 
Say  on  !  my  spirit  hangs  upon  thy  words. 
What  blight  hath  stricken  thee  since  last  we  met  ? 

MIRIAM. 

A  blight  that  is  contagious,  and  will  fall 
Perchance  upon  thy  fairest,  dearest  hopes, 
With  no  less  deadly  violence  than  now 
It  hath  on  mine.     Paulus  !  is  there  no  word 
These  lips  can  utter,  that  may  make  thee  wish 
Eternal  silence  there  had  stamped  her  seal  ? 

PAULUS. 

I  know  not,  love  !  thou  startlest  me  !  —  No,  —  none  ! 
Unless  it  be  of  hatred,  change,  or  death  ! 
And  these,  —  it  can  be  none  of  these  ! 

MIRIAM. 

Why  not  ? 

PAULUS. 

Ye  gods,  my  Miriam  !  look  not  on  me  thus  ! 
My  blood  runs  cold.     "  Why  not,"  saidst  thou  ?     Because 
Thou  art  too  young,  too  good,  too  beautiful 
To  die  ;  and  as  for  change  or  hatred,  love, 
Not  till  I  see  yon  clear  and  starry  skies 
Raining  down  fire  and  pestilence  on  man, 
Turning  the  beauteous  earth  whereon  we  stand 
Into  an  arid,  scathed,  and  blackening  waste, — 
3 


26  MIRIAM. 

Miriam,  —  will  I  believe  that  thou  canst  change. 

MIRIAM. 

O,  thou  art  right !  the  anguish  of  my  soul, 
My  spirit's  deep  and  rending  agony, 
Tell  me  that,  though  this  heart  may  surely  break, 
There  is  no  change  within  it !  and  through  life, 
Fondly  and  wildly,  —  though  most  hopelessly, — 
With  all  its  strong  affections,  will  it  cleave 
To  him  for  whom  it  nearly  yielded  all 
That  makes  life  precious,  —  peace  and  self-esteem, 
Friends  upon  earth,  and  hopes  in  heaven  above ! 

PAULUS. 

Meanest  thou  —  I  know  not  what.     My  mind  grows  dark, 
Amid  a  thousand  vvildering  mazes  lost. 
There  is  a  wild  and  dreadful  mystery 
Even  in  thy  words  of  love  I  cannot  solve. 

MIRIAM. 

Hear  me,  —  for  with  the  holy  faith  that  erst 
Made  strong  the  shuddering  patriarch's  heart  and  hand, 
When  meek  below  the  glittering  knife  lay  stretched 
The  boy  whose  smiles  were  sunshine  to  his  age, 
This  night  I  offer  up  a  sacrifice 
Of  life's  best  hopes  to  the  One  Living  God  J 
Yes,  from  this  night,  my  Paulus,  never  more 
Mine  eyes  shall  look  upon  thy  form,  mine  ears 
Drink  in  the  tones  of  thy  beloved  voice. 


MIRIAM. 
PAULTTS. 

Ye  gods  !  ye  cruel  gods  !  let  me  awake 
And  find  this  but  a  dream  ! 

MIRIAM. 

Is  it  then  said  ? 

0  God !  the  words  so  fraught  with  bitterness 
So  soon  are  uttered,  —  and  thy  servant  lives !  — 
Ay,  Paulus  ;  even  from  that  hour,  when  first 
My  spirit  knew  that  thine  was  wholly  lost, 
And  to  its  superstitions  wedded  fast, 
Shrouded  in  darkness,  blind  to  every  beam 
Streaming  from  Zion's  hill  athwart  the  night 
That  broods  in  horror  o'er  a  heathen  world,  — 
Even  from  that  hour  my  shuddering  soul  beheld 
A  dark  and  fathomless  abyss  yawn  wide 
Between  us  two,  and  o'er  it  gleamed  alone 
One  pale,  dim-twinkling  star,  —  the  lingering  hope 
That  grace,  descending  from  the  throne  of  light, 
Might  fall  in  gentle  dews  upon  that  heart, 
And  melt  it  into  humble  piety. 
Alas  !  that  hope  hath  faded !  and  I  see 
The  fatal  gulf  of  separation  still 
Between  us,  love,  and  stretching  on  for  aye 
Beyond  the  grave  in  which  I  feel  that  soon 
This  clay,  with  all  its  sorrows,  shall  lie  down. 
Union  for  us  is  none,  in  yonder  sky : 
Then  how  on  earth  ?  —  so  in  my  inmost  soul, 


28  MIRIAM. 

Nurtured  with  midnight  tears,  with  blighted  hopes, 

With  silent  watchings  and  incessant  prayers, 

A  holy  resolution  hath  taken  root, 

And  in  its  might  at  last  springs  proudly  up. 

We  part,  my  Paulus  !  not  in  hate,  but  love, 

Yielding  unto  a  stern  necessity. 

And  I  along  my  sad,  short  pilgrimage 

Will  bear  the  memory  of  our  sinless  love, 

As  mothers  wear  the  image  of  the  babe 

That  died  upon  their  bosom  ere  the  world 

Had  stamped  its  spotless  soul  with  good  or  ill, 

Pictured  in  infant  loveliness  and  smiles, 

Close  to  the  heart's  fond  core,  to  be  drawn  forth 

Ever  in  solitude,  and  bathed  in  tears. 

But  how  !  with  such  unmanly  grief  struck  down, 

Withered,  thou  Roman  knight ! 

PAULUS. 

My  brain  is  pierced  ! 

Mine  eyes  with  blindness  smitten  !  and  mine  ear 
Rings  faintly  with  the  echo  of  thy  words ! 
Henceforth  what  man  shall  ever  build  his  faith 
On  woman's  love, —  on  woman's  constancy  ?  — 
Maiden  !  look  up  !  I  would  but  gaze  once  more 
Upon  that  open  brow  and  clear,  dark  eye, 
To  read  what  aspect  perjury  may  wear, 
What  garb  of  loveliness  may  falsehood  use, 
To  lure  the  eye  of  guileless,  manly  love  !  — 


MIRIAM.  29 

Cruel,  cold-blooded,  fickle  that  thou  art, 
Dost  thou  not  quail  beneath  thy  lover's  eye  ? 
How  !  there  is  light  within  thy  lofty  glance, 
A  flush  upon  thy  cheek,  a  settled  calm 
Upon  thy  lip  and  brow  ! 

MIRIAM. 

Ay,  even  so. 

A  light,  —  a  flush,  —  a  calm,  —  not  of  this  earth ! 
For  in  this  hour  of  bitterness  and  woe, 
The  grace  of  God  is  falling  on  my  soul 
Like  dews  upon  the  withering  grass,  which  late 
Red,  scorching  flames  have  seared.     Again 
The  consciousness  of  faith,  of  sins  forgiven, 
Of  wrath  appeased,  of  heavy  guilt  thrown  off, 
Sheds  on  my  breast  its  long-forgotten  peace, 
And,  shining  steadfast  as  the  noonday  sun, 
Lights  me  along  the  path -that  duty  marks. 
Lover  too  dearly  loved,  a  long  farewell ! 
The  bannered  field,  the  glancing  spear,  the  shout 
That  bears  the  victor's  name  unto  the  skies, 
The  laurelled  brow,  be  thine 

PAULUS. 

Maid  !  —  now  hear  me ! 

For  by  thine  own  false  vows  and  broken  faith, 
By  thy  deceitful  lips,  and  dark,  cold  heart 

MIRIAM. 
Great  God,  support  me  now  !  —  It  cannot  be 

3* 


30 


MIRIAM. 


That  from  my  Paulus'  lips  such  bitter  words 

PAULUS. 
Such  bitter  words  !    Nay,  maiden,  what  were  thine  ? 

MIRIAM. 

Mine  were  not  spoken,  love,  in  heat  or  wrath, 
But  in  the  uprightness  of  a  heart  that  knew 
Its  duty  both  to  God  and  man,  and  sought 

Peace  with  its  Maker, —  ere  it  broke.     But  thou 

PAULUS. 

And  I  ?  —  thou  false  one  !  am  not  I  a  man  ? 
A  Roman  too  ?     And  is  a  Roman's  heart 
A  plaything  made  for  girls  to  toy  withal, 
And  then  to  keep  or  idly  fling  away, 
As  the  light  fancy  of  the  moment  prompts  ? 
Have  I  then  stooped  to  win  thy  fickle  love 
From  my  proud  pinnacle  of  rank  and  fame, 
Wasting  my  youth's  best  season  on  a  dream, 
Forgetful  of  my  name,  my  sire,  my  gods, 
To  be  thus  trifled  with  and  scorned  at  last  ? 

MIRIAM. 

Canst  thou  not  learn  to  hate  me  ? 
PAULUS. 

O  ye  gods  ! 

With  what  a  look  of  calm  despair 

MIRIAM. 

Ay,  Paulus ! 
Never,  in  all  my  deep  despondency,  — 


MIRIAM.  31 

In  all  the  hours  of  dark  presentiment 

In  which  my  fancy  often  conjured  up 

This  scene  of  trial,  —  did  my  spirit  dream 

Of  bitterness  like  that  which  now  thy  hand 

Is  pouring  in  my  cup  of  life.     Alas  ! 

Must  we  then  part  in  anger  ?     Shall  this  hour, 

With  harsh  upbraidings  marred 

PAULUS. 

Syren !  in  vain 

Would  I  coidd  learn  to  hate  thee  !  trampling  down 

The  memory  of  my  fond  and  foolish  love, 

As  I  would  crush  an  adder  'neath  my  heel  ! 

But  no  !  the  poison  rankles  in  my  veins  ;  — 

It  may  not  be  ; — each  look  and  tone  of  thine 

Tells  me  that  yet  thou  art  my  bosom's  queen, 

And  each  vain,  frantic  struggle  only  draws 

Closer  around  my  heart  the  woven  toils.  [A  pause. 

Miriam  !  my  pride  is  bowed,  —  my  wrath  subdued,  — 

My  heart  attuned  e'en  to  thy  slightest  will,  — 

So  that  thou  yet  wilt  let  me  linger  on, 

Hoping  and  dreaming  that  thou  hat'st  me  not, 

Suffered  to  come  at  times,  and  sadly  gaze 

Upon  thy  loveliness,  as  if  thou  wert 

A  Dian  shrined  within  her  awful  fane, 

Made  to  be  looked  upon  and  idolized, 

But  in  whose  presence  passion's  lightest  pulse, 

Love's  gentlest  whisper,  were  a  deadly  sin. 


32  MIRIAM. 

Cast  me  not  from  thee,  love  !  send  me  not  forth 
Blasted  and  wan  into  a  heartless  world, 
Amid  its  cold  and  glittering  pageantry, 
To  learn  what  utter  loneliness  of  soul, 
What  wordless,  deep,  and  sickening  misery, 
Is  in  the  sense  of  unrequited  love  ! 

MIRIAM. 

I  cannot,  must  not  hear  thee.     Even  now 
A  chord  is  touched  within  my  soul.  —  Great  God ! 
Where  is  the  strength  thou  didst  vouchsafe  of  late  ? 
Anger,  —  reproach,  —  were  better  borne  than  this  ! 

PAULUS. 

Why  should  thy  gentler  nature  thus  be  crushed  ? 
Is  not  the  voice  within  thee  far  more  just 
Than  the  harsh  dictates  of  thy  gloomy  faith  ? 
Thy  stern  and  unrelenting  Deity 

MIRIAM. 

Youth  !  thou  remindest  me,  —  thou  dost  blaspheme 
The  God  of  Mercy  whom  I  serve  ;  and  now 
Courage  and  strength  return  at  once  to  nerve 
My  trembling  limbs,  my  weak  and  yielding  soul. 
What  wouldst  thou  have  ?     That  I  should  yet  drag  on 
A  life  of  dark  and  vile  hypocrisy, 
Days  full  of  fear  and  nights  of  vain  remorse, 
And  love,  though  sinless,  yet  not  innocent  ? 
For  well  I  know  that  when  thy  sunny  smiles 
Are  on  me,  sternly  frowning  doth  look  down 


MIRIAM. 

My  Maker  on  our  stolen  interview  ! 

It  is  a  crime  of  dye  too  deep  and  dark 

To  be  washed  out  but  with  a  life  of  tears, 

And  penitence,  and  utter  abstinence. 

I  never  will  behold  thy  face  again ! 

My  soul  shall  be  unlocked  and  purified, 

And  there  the  eyes  of  those  that  love  me  well 

Shall  find  no  dark  and  sinful  mystery, 

Shunning  a  tender  father's  scrutiny, 

And  weighing  down  my  spirit  to  the  dust.  — 

Paulus  !  —  again,  —  farewell !  yet,  —  yet  in  peace 

We  part ! 

PAULUS. 

Maiden  !  by  all  my  perished  hopes, 
By  the  o'erwhelming  passion  of  my  soul, 
By  the  remembrance  of  that  fatal  hour 
When  first  I  spake  to  thee  of  love,  and  thought 

That  thou Ay  !  by  the  sacred  gods,  I  swear, 

I  will  not  yield  thee  thus !     In  open  day, 
Before  my  father's  eyes,  —  and  bearing,  too, 
Perchance  his  malediction  on  my  head, — 
Before  the  face  of  all  assembled  Rome, 
Banned  though  I  be  by  all  her  priests  and  gods,  — 
Thee,  thee  will  I  lead  forth,  my  Christian  bride  ! 

MIRIAM. 

Ay  !  say'st  thou  so,  my  Paulus  ?     Thou  art  bold, 
And  generous.     Meet  bridal  will  it  be,  — 


34  MIRIAM. 

The  stake,  —  the  slow,  red  fire, —  perchance  the  den 

Of  hungry  lions,  gnashing  with  white  teeth 

In  savage  glee  at  sight  of  thy  young  bride, 

Their  destined  prey  !    For  well  thou  know'st  that  these 

Are  but  the  tenderest  mercies  of  thy  sire 

To  the  scorned  sect,  whose  lofty  faith  my  soul 

Holds  fast  through  torments  worse  than  aught  that  these 

Can  offer  to  the  clay  wherein  it  dwells. 

PAtTLUS. 

Drive  me  not  mad  !  —  Nay,  —  nay,  —  I  have  not  done  ; 

The  dark,  cold  waters  of  despair  rise  fast, 

But  have  not  yet  o'ertopped  each  resting-place. 

We  will  go  forth  upon  the  bounding  sea, 

We  two  alone,  and  chase  the  god  of  day 

O'er  the  broad  ocean,  where  each  eve  he  dips 

His  blazing  chariot  in  the  western  wave, 

And  seek  some  lonely  isle  of  peace  and  love, 

Where  lingering  summer  dwells  the  livelong  year, 

Wasting  the  music  of  her  happy  birds, 

The  unplucked  richness  of  her  golden  fruits, 

The  fragrance  of  her  blossoms,  o'er  the  land. 

And  we  will  be  the  first  to  tread  the  turf, 

And  raise  our  quiet  hearth  and  altars  there, 

And  thou  shalt  fearless  bow  before  the  cross, 

Praying  unto  what  unknown  God  thou  wilt, 

While  I 

MIRIAM. 

No  more,  my  Paulus  !  it  is  vain. 


MIRIAM.  35 


Why  should  we  thus  unnerve  our  souls  with  dreams, 
With  fancies  wilder,  idler  far  than  dreams  ? 
Our  destiny  is  fixed  !  the  hour  is  come  ! 
And  wilt  thou  that  a  frail  and  trembling  girl 
Should  meet  its  anguish  with  a  steadier  soul 
Than  thine,  proud  soldier  ?  —  Ha  !  what  hurried  step 
Enter  ECPHAS. 

EUPHAS. 

Sister  !  I  have  escaped,  —  I  scarce  know  how  ;  — 
Their  shrieks  yet  ring  within  my  thrilling  ears. 
The  foe  hath  burst  upon  the  unfinished  rites, 

Slaughtering  some,  and  bearing  off  in  bonds 

Just  heaven !  —  what  man  is  this  ? 
MIRIAM. 


O,  answer  me ! 
And  say  our  father  is  unhurt ! 

EUPHAS. 

Hear,  Miriam  ! 

I  ivill  be  answered  first !     What  knight  is  this  ? 
What  doth  he  here  ?  [A  pause. 

O  grief !  can  this  be  so  ? 

Would  I  had  died  among  their  glittering  swords, 
Pouring  my  life-blood  from  a  thousand  wounds, 
Ere  my  young  eyes  had  seen  this  cruel  shame  ! 
Hast  thou  no  subterfuge  at  hand,  pale  girl  ? 
Well  may  convulsion  wring  thy  trembling  lip  ! 
Were  I  a  Roman  boy,  —  of  Roman  faith,  — 


36  MIRIAM. 

This  hand  ere  now But  no !  —  I  could  not  do  't ! 

Thou  art  too  like  the  saint  that  bore  us  both  ! 
Let  me  be  gone. 

MIRIAM. 

Stay,  stay,  rash  boy  !     Alas ! 
The  thickening  horrors  of  this  awful  night 
Have  flung,  methinks,  a  spell  upon  my  soul. 
I  tell  thee,  Euphas,  thou  hast  far  more  cause 
Proudly  to  clasp  my  breaking  heart  to  thine, 
And  bless  me  with  a  loving  brother's  praise, 
Than  thus  to  stand  with  sad  but  angry  eye, 
Hurling  thy  hasty  scorn  upon  a  brow 
As  sinless  as  thine  own,  —  breaking  the  reed 
But  newly  bruised,  —  pouring  coals  of  fire 
Upon  my  fresh  and  bleeding  wounds  !  — O,  tell  me, 
What  hath  befallen  my  father  ?     Say  he  lives, 
Or  let  me  lay  my  head  upon  thy  breast, 
And  die  at  once  ! 

EUPHAS. 

He  lives,  —  the  old  man  lives. 
See  that  ihou  kill  him  not.     Let  me  pass  on. 

MIRIAM. 

Tell  me  in  mercy  first,  —  where  is  our  sire  ? 
Why  art  thou  here  alone  ? 

EUPHAS. 

Hast  thou  no  fear 
To  take  that  honored  name  upon  thy  lips  ? 


MIRIAM.  37 

I  meant  with  gentlest  caution  to  have  told 

Tidings  so  fraught  with  woe  ;  —  't  were  uselsss  now. 

Maiden  !  he  is  a  prisoner  ! 

MIRIAM. 

O  just  Heaven  ! 

EUPHAS. 

They  mastered  him,  —  the  ruthless  slaves,  —  while  I, 

Lurking  securely  'mid  the  copsewood  near, 

With  shuddering  frame  and  half-averted  eye 

Beheld  them  rudely  bind  his  withered  hands, 

And  mock  his  struggles  impotent,  and  rend 

The  decent  silver  locks  upon  his  brow, 

While  overhead  the  fair  and  quiet  moon 

Sailed  on,  and  lent  her  light  to  deeds  so  foul ! 

And  then  I  saw  him  meekly  led  away 

Amid  a  throng  of  shrieking  captives,  men, 

Women,  and  babes,  unto  the  dungeon  drear, 

Whence  he  will  never  issue  but  to  die 

A  death  of  shame  and  cruel  agony  ! 

And  yet  I  stirred  not,  —  for  I  deemed  there  grew 

A  spotless  lily  in  the  wilderness, 

Whose  unprotected  sweetness  none  but  I 

Might  shelter  from  the  blast !     I  fondly  dreamed 

Thou  wert  too  pure,  too  good,  too  beautiful, 

To  be  thus  flung  upon  the  cold,  wide  world, 

Bearing  the  faith  that  men  do  trample  on, 

Alone  and  helpless,  —  orphaned,  —  brotherless  ! 


38  MIRIAM. 

And  so  my  kind  and  aged  parent  went 
Unaided,  unconsoled.     Shame  on  these  tears  ! 
Could  I  have  dreamed  the  dove  would  shelter  her 
Beneath  the  vulture's  foul  and  treacherous  wing  ? 
Alas,  my  father  !  sweeter  far  this  night 
Will  be  thy  rest  within  thy  noisome  cell, 
And  more  light-hearted  wilt  thou  rise  at  dawn 
To  front  the  bloody  Piso 

MIRIAM. 

Ha  !  dost  hear  ? 

PAULTJS. 
I  hear,  —  and  I  rejoice. 

EUPHAS. 

How  ?  ruffian  !     Here  ? 
Art  thou  still  here  ?     I  had  forgotten  thee  ! 
But  by  the  strength  the  God  of  justice  gives, 
In  this  death-grapple  thou  shalt  surely  die  ! 

PAULUS. 

Art  thou  so  hot  ?     Unloose  my  throat,  vain  boy  ! 
Beardless,  unarmed,  and  nerveless  as  thou  art, 
To  risk  thyself  in  desperate  struggle  thus, 
With  one  whose  slightest  effort  masters  thee 
As  lightly  as  the  bird  of  Jove  bears  off 
The  panting  dove  ! 

Thou  seest  I  harm  him  not. 
Thou  know'st  I  would  not  hurt  one  glossy  curl 
Upon  thy  brother's  head. 


MIRIAM.  3 

(To  EUPHAS.) 

Go  !  thou  art  safe. 
I  could  not  slay  my  bitterest  enemy, 
Were  he  as  young  and  beautiful  as  thou, 
And  much  less  thee,  —  in  such  a  cause  as  this. 
Take  thou  thy  life. 

EUPHAS. 

I  thank  thee  not.  —  Alas  ! 
Thou  couldst  not  proffer  a  more  worthless  gift. 
Why  should  I  live  ?     I  look  upon  yon  girl, 
Weeping  her  bitter  grief  and  self-reproach 
In  utter  hopelessness,  and  pray  thee  take 
The  life  which  thou  hast  made  so  valueless. 

PAULTJS. 

Be  still.     Why  pratest  thou  of  misery 
To  one  on  whose  devoted  head  the  gods 
Have  poured  the  cup  of  vengeance,  long  deferred, 
With  such  a  fierce  and  unrelenting  wrath, 
That  glory,  riches,  fame,  and  e'en  the  name 
I  proudly  bore,  —  the  hopes  that  rose  this  morn 
As  if  the  fire  that  lit  them  were  from  heaven,  — 
And  life  itself,  —  are  now  no  more  to  me 

Than  last  night's  dream  ? 

One  duty  yet  remains,  — 

And  when  that  's  done  !  —  Look  on  these  features,  boy. 
Hast  thou  not  seen  me  on  high  festal  days, 
Decked  with  the  tossing  plume  and  snow-white  robe, 


40 


MIRIAM. 


And  bearing  high  my  proud  and  knightly  brow 
Amid  the  throng  of  Rome's  degenerate  lords  ? 
Or  did  the  abject  Syrian  boy  ne'er  dare 
To  lift  his  looks  so  high  ? 

ETTPHAS. 

I  scan  thy  face, 

Proud  youth  !     The  lightnings  leaping  from  thine  eye 
Avouch  thee  of  a  high  and  haughty  race. 
But  of  the  name  thou  bearest  I  only  know 
Thy  deeds  have  steeped  it  in  such  infamy, 
That  the  pale  statues  of  thy  vaunted  sires, 
Lining  thy  hall,  will  surely  one  day  leap 
Forth  from  their  niches  in  their  living  scorn, 
And  crush  thee  into  senseless,  shapeless  dust. 
I  seek  to  know  no  more. 

PAULUS. 

Stripling  !  beware  ! 

The  powerful  magic  hidden  in  that  name 
Alone  can  bid  thy  father's  prison  open. 
I  am  the  son  of  Piso. 

EUPHAS. 
Is  it  so  ? 

Thou,  —  the  proud  Paulus,  —  lurking  here  by  night, 
Prowling  with  stealthy  foot  around  the  cot 
Where  in  her  innocence  there  dwelt  a  maid 
Born  and  baptized  in  the  Christian  faith  ! 
Thou  Piso's  son  ?     Then  by  the  God  we  serve, 


MIRIAM. 

Thou  'rt  taken  in  the  toils.     Lo  !  this  way  come 
Glittering  in  arms  my  father's  trusty  friends, 
Whom  I  had  summoned  hither  but  to  aid 

The  orphans  with  their  counsel,  —  ere  I  dreamed 

Alas !  - 

MIRIAM. 

I  hear  the  tread  of  heavy  feet ! 
And  'mid  the  trees  I  see  their  dusky  forms  ! 
Fly,  Paulus,  fly  ! 

PAULUS. 

Am  I  so  base,  think'st  thou  ? 

MIRIAM. 

They  come  !  with  wrath  upon  their  lurid  brows. 
In  mercy,  fly  !  —  O  God  !  it  is  too  late  ! 

PATTLUS. 

Is  it  thy  madness  or  thy  love  that  speaks  ? 
What  is  to  thee  this  foolish  life  of  mine  ? 
Thou  in  thine  hour  of  triumph  and  cold  scorn 
Hast  crushed  the  heart  wherein  it  beats,  —  even  yet 
Too  fondly  beats  for  thee  !     Wouldst  thou  that  death 
Should  not  be  wholly  pangless  ?  —  Spare  thy  words  ; 
Thou  lov'st  me  not,  —  the  mockery  is  ill-timed. 

ETJPHAS. 

Hither,  my  friends,  with  speedier  steps. 
Enter  armed  CHRISTIANS. 

Ye  come, 
Girt  with  no  needless  weapons,  to  the  cot 

4* 


42  MIRIAM. 

Of  him  who  called  you  to  a  gentler  task. 

Lo,  in  the  dove's  own  nest  the  serpent  coiled  ! 

So  that  ye  ask  not  why  he  hither  came, 

Do  what  ye  list.     It  is  the  haughty  son 

Of  him  whose  myrmidons  this  night  have  snatched 

Your  own  best  treasures  shrieking  from  your  arms, 

Turning  your  hymns  and  holy  prayers  to  groans, 

Drenching  the  unburied  dust  of  him  ye  loved 

With  martyr's  blood,  and  waking  in  your  hearts 

The  stern,  deep  cry  for  vengeance  ! 

MIRIAM. 

O  my  brother  ! 

How  have  such  words  a  place  on  Christian  lips  ? 
Hear  me,  ye  upright  men !     Bare  not  your  swords. 
The  youth  on  whom  ye  bend  such  dreadful  eyes 
Is  innocent  of  all,  —  except  the  love, 

The  world-forgetting  love,  he  cherished 

EUPHAS. 

Miriam  ! 

Dumb  be  the  shameless  tongue  that  would  proclaim 
What  in  a  brother's  patient  love  I  sought 
"To  hide  from  mortal  eye  ! 

MIRIAM. 

It  is  too  much  ! 

My  innocence Why  do  I  grow  so  weak  ? 

Wrongly  and  harshly  dost  thou  judge  of  me  ! 
O  for  one  breeze  of  purer,  fresher  air, 


MIRIAM. 

To  sweep  away  the  gathering  mist  that  dims 
My  failing  sight ! 

EUPHAS. 

She  faints  !     Let  me  not  look 
Upon  her  lifeless  form,  lest  it  awake 
Pity  that  were  a  sin ! 

PATJLUS. 
How  beautiful 

Even  in  her  deathlike  paleness  doth  she  lie ! 
Fairest !  from  that  kind  swoon  awake  not  yet. 
Thy  words  were  love  ?  —  one  struggle,  then,  for  life. 
Meantime,  in  blest  unconsciousness,  perchance 
Thou  'It  scape  a  bloody  sight.  —  Ye  men  of  peace  ! 
I  wait  my  doom.     Ye,  who  do  boast  your  faith 
A  faith  of  love,  and  peace,  and  charity, 
Look  on  the  son  of  Piso,  and  declare 
If,  in  his  helplessness,  your  unarmed  foe 
Shall  live  or  die.  —  Ye  pause  ?  —  I  am  prepared. 
Though  my  young  heart,  that  still  beats  steadily, 
Be  of  a  softer  temper  than  my  sire's,  — 
Though  the  same  voice  that  boldly  bids  you  strike 
Ofttimes  for  hours  has  sued  most  earnestly 
To  my  stern  father  for  a  Christian's  life,  — 
Hath  bid  the  fire  be  quenched,  the  tiger  chained, 
The  scarce-believing  captive  given  back, 
Even  from  the  grasp  of  death,  to  the  wild  prayers, 
The  blessings,  and  the  tears  of  those  he  loved,  — 


44  MIRIAM. 

Yet  do  I  claim  no  mercy  at  your  hands. 

Do  with  me  as  you  list,  remembering  this, — 

The  blood  within  these  veins  is  innocent 

As  that  which  stained  the  floor  of  yonder  cave  !  — 

How  !  —  with  a  sudden  frown  ye  wildly  pluck 

Your  daggers  forth  ?     They  gleam  before  an  eye 

That  quivers  not.  —  But  thou,  —  thou  who  art  yet 

A  mild  and  gentle-hearted  boy,  arise  ! 

Lift  up  thy  buried  face,  and  let  me  look 

Once  more  upon  its  beauty,  —  so  like  hers, 

In  all  its  pale  and  touching  loveliness  ! 

Thou  stirrest  not,  —  I  hear  thy  stifled  sobs  ! 

Bidd'st  thou  the  deed  thou  dar'st  not  look  upon  ? 

EUPHAS. 
Let  him  not  die  ! 

FIRST    CHRISTIAN. 

He  must. 

EUPHAS. 

O,  no  !  not  thus 

Religion  asks  the  service  of  our  hands. 
The  spirit  of  her  mild  and  bloodless  laws 
Requires  not  life  for  life.     Let  him  go  forth. 

PAULUS. 

Boy  !  with  that  word  thou  hast  undrawn  the  bolts 
That  close  the  deep,  dark  dungeon  on  thy  sire, 
And  loosed  the  heavy  shackles  on  his  arms. 
For  every  idle  drop  of  Piso's  blood 


MIRIAM.  45 

Ye  in  your  wrath  and  blind  revenge  had  shed, 
One  pang  the  more  had  wrung  those  aged  limbs. 
But  while  I  live,  a  blessed  hope  yet  beams 
Upon  the  dire  captivity  ye  mourn. 
EUPHAS. 

Thou  silver-tongued  deceiver  !     Is  it  thus 
Thou  wouldst  escape  us  ?     Think'st  thou  that  because 
My  Christian  heart  relented  at  the  thought 
Of  one  lone,  helpless  victim's  blood  poured  forth 
As  water  in  revengeful  sacrifice, 
I  have  become  a  weak,  believing  girl, 
All  fond  credulity  and  hope  ?  —  Peace  !  —  peace  ! 
When  thy  deluding  accents  sound  most  sweet, 
Most  do  I  dread  thy  deep  hypocrisy. 
There  is  no  hope  ! 

PAULUS. 

No  hope  !     Ye  gods  !  my  Miriam  ! 
To  thee  and  thine  how  humbly  croucheth  down 
The  lion  thou  hast  tamed  ! 

EUPHAS. 

Nay,  let  him  go  !  ' 

Hence,  in  thy  cruel  treachery,  to  thy  sire  ! 
Tell  him  that  other  Christians  worship  yet 
The  one  pure  God  within  the  walls  of  Rome. 
Bid  him  plant  thick  his  stakes,  to  fury  lash 
His  howling  monsters  from  the  wilderness  ; 
And,  ere  the  dawn,  be  sure  thy  myrmidons 


46  MIRIAM. 

Seize  the  forsaker  of  his  helpless  sire, 

And  let  him  end  his  brief  and  blighted  days, 

Withering  for  hours  upon  the  welcome  cross 

In  pangs  —  scarce  worse  than  those  remembrance  brings. 

Go,  get  thee  hence  !     I  spare  thy  wretched  life  ; 

But  on  thy  brow  I  pour  the  utter  scorn, 

The  deep  abhorrence,  of  my  soul ! 

PATTLUS. 

Wake,  maiden ! 

Why  is  thy  fearful  swoon  so  long  ?     Alas  ! 
Looking  upon  thy  deathlike  loveliness, 
I  hear  strange,  scornful  words,  and  heed  them  not ! 

EUPHAS. 

Mourneth  the  whirlwind  o'er  the  broken  flower? 
Gaze  not  upon  the  ruin  thou  hast  made. 
Go  to  thy  sire,  and  tell  him 

PAULUS. 

Stripling!  hear  ! 

That  sire  hath  now  no  son  !     I  give  myself 
A  pledge  and  hostage  for  your  father's  life  ; 
And  if  the  morrow's  sun  bring  not  your  friends 
Back  from  their  dreary  dungeon  to  your  arms, 
Let  the  bright  daggers  gleaming  round  me  now 
Drink  the  young  blood  of  Piso's  only  son  ! 
Go  thou  and  tell  my  father  this  ! 

EUPHAS. 

Roman  ! 


MIRIAM.  47 

I  take  thee  at  thy  word  !     I  go  !  —  Perchance 
Thou  wouldst  but  lead  me  to  the  lion's  den. 
But  if  thy  words  be  craft,  and  thy  designs 
Pregnant  with  direst  mischief  to  my  life, 
It  matters  not ;  for  I  have  that  at  stake 
Would  lead  me  on  through  fire  and  pestilence, 
Famine,  and  thirst,  and  keenest  agony, 
Fearless  and  struggling  still  while  hope  remained  ! 
My  father !  what  hath  earth  to  daunt  mine  eye, 
Seeking  to  gaze  once  more  upon  that  brow 
I  should  have  died  to  shield  from  violence  ? 
No  !     I  have  naught  below  the  skies  but  thee, 
And  to  the  wild  beast's  lair  I  rush  at  once 
To  save  thee,  or  to  die  !  —  My  sister  !  —  nay  ! 
Let  me  not  look  on  her  !  —  O,  who  could  dream 
Falsehood  had  crept  within  a  shrine  so  fair  ? 
Let  me  turn  from  her,  ere  the  memory 

Of  what  she  was 

My  father's  friends  !  bear  ye 
The  hostage  of  our  kindred's  lives  away 
Up  to  the  lonely  garden,  by  the  wall 
Where  we  have  sometimes  met,  and  there  await 
The  answer  I  shall  bring.     If  when  the  sun 
Wakes  with  his  first  red  beam  the  matin  birds, 
I  come  not  yet,  nor  from  the  rising  ground 
Ye  should  mark  aught  approach  that  tokens  good, 
Deem  that  my  father's  cell  hath  closed  on  me,  — 


48  MIRIAM. 

That  in  my  youth  I  am  held  fit  to  wear 

The  martyr's  glorious  crown, —  and  that  no  power, 

No  earthly  power,  can  save  the  friends  ye  love 

Out  of  the  spoiler's  hand.     Ye  know  the  rest.  [Exit. 

PAULUS. 

The  rest!  — blood  rudely  shed,  untimely  death, 
And  an  ignoble  grave,  are  in  that  word. 
O  for  one  touch  of  that  high  energy, 
That  eager  spirit  thrilling  through  each  vein, 
That  in  my  days  of  young  renown  and  pride 
Bore  me  triumphant  in  the  battle's  van, 
Where  brightest  flashed  the  swords,  and  thickest  flew 

The  barbed  javelins  round  my  glittering  shield  ! 

Christians  !  ere  we  go  hence,  I  would  but  look 
Once  more  upon  her  face  !     I  hear  a  voice 
Sighing  her  dirge  among  yon  rustling  leaves, 
And  calling  him  whose  spirit  lived  in  hers 
Away, — away  from  worldly  sin  and  woe. 
And  I  would  learn  from  that  calm,  marble  brow 
The  deep  and  blest  repose  there  is  in  death  ! 

[A  cloud  crosses  the  moon. 
How  !  doth  the  God  she  worshipped  thus  forbid 
The  sinner's  eye  to  gaze  on  things  so  pure  ? 
Pass,  shadow,  pass  !  —  a  holier  light  than  thine, 
Fair  orb,  falls  on  my  dark  and  troubled  soul, 
While  thus  I  drink  in  peace  and  quietness 
Gazing  upon  my  Miriam's  silent  face  ! 


MIRIAM.  49 

Ye  gods !  metbought  a  sudden  quivering  ran 
O'er  her  pale  lips  and  eyelids  softly  closed  ! 
She  stirs  !  —  she  sighs  !  —  she  looks  upon  me  now  ! 
Life,  —  life  and  light  are  waking  in  her  eye  ! 

MIRIAM. 

Methought  once  more  in  dear  Judea's  land, 

A  child,  by  Siloe's  gushing  fount,  I  sat 

Close  by  my  angel-mother's  knee,  and  heard 

The  holy  hymns  she  sweetly  sung  each  night 

Unto  our  God,  while  ever  and  anon 

The  quiet  murmur  of  the  brook  came  in, 

Filling  each  pause  with  softest  melody, 

Even  as  it  was  wont,  years,  years  ago  ! 

Was  it  an  idle  vision  of  the  night,  —  a  trance  ? 

Where  am  I  now  ?     Whose  dark,  bright  eyes  are  these, 

Gazing  upon  me  thus  ?     Euphas  !  my  sire  ! 

Where  are  ye  both  ?  [Rising  suddenly.']  Alas!  alas!  too  well 

I  do  remember  all ! 

PAULUS. 

My  Miriam  !     Dost  not 
Remember  me  ? 

MIRIAM. 
Peace  !  peace  !  —  that  voice,  —  it  kills  ! 

O  for  the  deep  and  blest  forgetfulness 

Where  is  my  brother  ? 

PAULUS. 

Am  I  then  so  hateful  ? 

5 


50  MIRIAM. 

Wilt  thou  not  hear  my  voice,  although  it  speak 
Of  those 

MIRIAM. 

Tell  me,  ye  men  of  anxious  brow, 
Where  is  the  dark -haired  boy,  —  the  boy  I  loved 
Even  from  his  cradle  better  than  my  life  ? 

FIRST    CHRISTIAN. 

He  hath  gone  forth. 

MIRIAM. 

Gone  forth,  said  ye  ?  —  and  whither  ? 
Alone,  —  unarmed  ? 

PAULUS. 

Hear  from  my  lips  the  tale  ! 
Up  to  my  father's  palace  hath  he  gone, 
Alone,  —  unarmed 

MIRIAM. 

Enough,  —  enough!     Just  God, 
Now  doth  thy  wrath  fall  heavy  on  my  soul ! 

PAULUS. 
Wilt  thou  not  hear  what  purpose  led  him  forth  ? 

MIRIAM. 
I  know  it,  —  and  I  pray  you  let  me  pass  ! 

PAULUS. 
How  !  —  whither  wouldst  thou  go  ? 

MIRIAM. 

To  die  !  —  with  him,  — 
With  them  !  —  Are  they  not  loth  to  die  ? 


MIRIAM.  51 

PAULUS. 

Nay,  —  nay  ! 
None  whom  thou  lov'st  shall  die.     I  bade  him  say 

MIRIAM. 

How  !  was  he  sent,  —  sent ,  Paulus  !  —  and  by  thee  ? 
I  will  not  stay !  loose  me  !  the  air  grows  thick,  — 
I  cannot  breathe  !  —  Alas  !  betrayed,  —  betrayed 
Even  into  the  tyrant's  hand  !  —  so  young !  — 
So  good,  —  so  innocent,  —  O  my  brother  ! 

PAULUS. 
Hear  me  this  once  !     Weep  if  thou  wilt,  but  hear ! 

MIRIAM. 

I  have  no  power  to  move.     The  God  who  gave 
Hath  taken  away  the  sinner's  wasted  strength. 
Say  on  ;  but  let  my  brother  be  thy  theme. 

PAULUS. 

Terror  and  blank  dismay  he  bears  with  him 
This  night  into  my  father's  stately  halls. 
Think'st  thou  the  unknown  tyrant  whom  thou  hatest, 
He  whom  thy  sire's  deep  wrongs  have  bid  thee  curse, 
Will  feel  no  shuddering  when  he  hears  the  tale 
Told  by  thy  brother's  lips,  —  perchance  ere  now  ? 
Knowing  that,  by  some  dark,  mysterious  chance, 
Fierce  Christian  swords  are  closing  round  my  breast, 
Ready  with  morn's  first  beam  to  drink  my  blood, — 
Think'st  thou,  to  save  this  young  and  much-prized  life, 
Fie  would  not  give  a  thousand  Christians  back 


52  MIRIAM. 

From  their  barred  cells  ?  —  nay,  from  the  lifted  cross  ? 
Thou  know'st  him  not. 

MIRIAM. 

Paulus,  dost  thou  believe 
I  shall  again  behold  my  father's  face  ? 
Or  that  the  noble  boy,  whom  thou  hast  sent 
Up  to  the  house  of  blood  and  cruel  fraud, 
Will  ever  from  that  den  return  unharmed  ? 

PAULUS. 

[  am  my  father's  only  son,  and  loved 
As  only  sons  alone  are  ever  loved.     In  this 
Lieth  my  hope. 

MIRIAM. 

Thy  hope  !     O  God  !  —  thy  hope  ? 
Is  it  no  more  ?  —  Thou  shouldst  have  been  assured^ 
Ere  thou  hadst  risked  a  life  I  hold  so  dear. 
O,  why  doth  trusting  woman  plant  her  hopes 
In  the  unknown  quicksands  of  a  stranger's  faith  ? 
She  should  love  none  she  hath  not  known  from  birth,  — 
Or  look  to  be  deceived,  as  I  have  been. 
Why  dost  thou  stay  me  thus  ?     Lo  !  I  am  called  ! 
I  must  be  there  to  close  their  eyes  !  —  Away ! 

PAULUS. 
Hear  me,  my  Miriam  ! 

MIRIAM. 

Nay  !  't  is  past !     Away  ! 
That  voice  was  once  a  spell ;  —  it  is  all  o'er  ! 


MIRIAM.  53 

Why  dost  thou  call  me  thine  ?     I  have  no  part 
In  thee,  nor  thou  in  me  ;  —  and  we  love  not, 
Hate  not,  and  worship  not  alike.     How  then 
Can  I  be  thine  ?     I  pray  thee,  let  me  go ! 

PAT7LUS. 

And  whither  then  ? 

MIRIAM. 

I  know  not !  —  Where  are  they  1 

PAULUS. 
They  will  be  here  ere  morn. 

MIRIAM. 

Thou  think'st  not  so  ! 
Youth !  thou  hast  learned  deceit. 
PAULUS. 

I  bear  all  this  ! 

I  mark  the  frightful  paleness  of  thy  cheek, 
The  wild  and  wandering  glances  of  thine  eye, 
And  stifle  down  my  utter  agony. 
O,  what  a  night  is  this ! 

MIRIAM. 

Am  I  so  pale  ? 

It  is  thy  work,  —  and,  for  a  gentle  youth, 
Strange  havoc  hast  thou  caused,  —  much  misery  ! 
Say'st  thou  my  looks  are  wild  ?     It  is  because 
I  linger  here  with  thee,  when  I  should  fly 
E'en  to  earth's  farthest  bounds.  —  I  will  be  gone  ! 
Ay  !  I  am  weak,  but  not  in  spirit,  youth  ! 

5* 


oi  MIRIAM. 

And  the  roused  soul  hath  strength  to  lift  its  clay. 
I  must  behold  the  boy's  dark  curls  once  more, 
And  stroke  again  my  father's  silver  locks, 
And  hear  their  last,  last  words  of  pardoning  love, 
And  learn  of  them,  pure  martyrs,  how  to  die  ! 
Think'st  thou  I  shall  have  power  to  look  on  them 
Even  to  the  last,  through  all  their  agonies  ? 
Or  will  he  graciously  let  me  die  first  ? 

PAULUS. 
It  is  too  much  ! 

MIRIAM. 

Nay,  if  I  haste,  he  may ! 

Why  dost  thou  hold  me  ?     I  am  growing  strong, 
And  thou,  methinks,  art  weak  ! 

(Bursting  from  him.) 

Lo !  I  am  free  ! 

PAULUS. 

Will  ye  not  stay  her  ?     I  am  powerless  ; 

Her  words  have  stricken  from  mine  arms  their  force. 

FIRST    CHRISTIAN. 

She  hath  her  task  ;  strength  will  be  given  her. 

MIRIAM. 

Ay,  ye  say  true.     I  am  not  wholly  left ; 
And  like  a  morning  mist  from  gleaming  lakes, 
The  cloud  is  passing  from  my  wildered  mind. 
Youth  !  wert  thou  as  they  are,  even  thus 
For  thee  would  I  risk  all.  —  If  there  be  hope 


MIRIAM.  55 

Or  consolation  in  those  words,  take  thou 

One  last,  fond  blessing  with  them  !  —  this,  at  least, 

Will  sure  be  pardoned  me.     There  is  a  love 

That  innocence  may  feel  for  sinning  friends, 

A  love  made  up  of  holy  hopes,  and  prayers, 

And  tears  !  and,  Paulus,  even  such  angel-love, 

Living  or  dying,  will  I  bear  to  thee  !  — Farewell !       [Exit,. 

FIRST    CHRISTIAN. 

Thou  too  must  hence  with  us  ! 

PAULUS. 

Not  yet, —  not  yet ! 

Let  me  but  watch  the  fluttering  of  her  robe  !  — 
Alas  !  its  last  white  gleam  is  faded,  —  gone,  — 
And  swallowed  up  in  darkness,  like  my  hopes, 
My  happiness,  —  like  all  things  fair  or  bright, 
These  eyes  have  ever  loved  to  look  upon ! 
Lead  where  ye  will.     The  clods  beneath  these  feet 
Have  scarce  less  life  or  consciousness  than  he 
Whose  foot  is  pressing  them,  with  a  dull  hope 
To  share  their  utter  senselessness  ere  long.  [Exeunt. 


56  MIRIAM. 


SCENE  II. 

A  Hall  in  the  Palace  of  Piso.  —  Piso  and  ECFHAS. 
PISO. 

WHY  !  thou  hast  trusted  in  thy  youth  and  bloom, 

As  if  the  eye  whose  lightnings  thou  hast  braved 

Were  woman's !     Thou  hast  yet  to  learn,  fair  boy, 

The  mower  in  his  earnest  task  spares  not 

The  wild-flower  in  his  path.     It  moves  my  mirth 

That  with  such  hope  thou  shouldst  have  sought  my  face, 

Intruding  on  my  midnight  privacy, 

To  pour  thine  intercession  in  mine  ear. 

Tell  me,  I  pray,  didst  thou  in  sooth  believe 

Thy  boyish  eloquence  and  raven  curls 

Might  move  the  settled  purpose  of  my  soul  ? 

Or  is  thy  life  too  bitter  in  the  bud, 

That  thou  hast  taken  a  way  so  sure  and  prompt 

To  nip  its  blossoming? 

EUPHAS. 

I  know  not  which. 

But  if  I  had  a  hope,  and  it  prove  false, 
Life  were  the  sternest  penalty  thy  wrath 
Could  bid  my  spirit  bear. 


MIRIAM.  57 

PISO. 

I  doubt  thee  much. 

When  the  young  blood  runs  bounding  through  the  veins, 
And  a  strong  thought  is  on  the  working  soul, 
And  death  goes  wandering  far  and  heeds  thee  not, 
'T  is  easy  then  to  scorn  thine  absent  foe. 
But  if  the  monster  turn  upon  thee  fierce, 
Whispering  a  sudden  summons  in  thine  ear, 
Checking  thy  youthful  pulse  with  icy  touch, 
Flinging  an  utter  darkness  on  thy  hopes, 
Boy  !  in  that  shuddering  hour,  —  it  draweth  nigh  !  — 
I  shall  behold  thy  bright  cheek  blanched  with  fear, 
And  hear  thee,  in  thine  agony,  implore 
One  day,  —  one  hour  of  that  same  precious  life 
Which  now  thou  hold'st  so  cheap.     How  thou  wilt  rue 
And  wonder  at  thine  own  presumption  strange, 
And  that  insane  and  idle  hope,  which  gave 
Thee,  in  thy  youth  and  folly,  to  my  hand. 
Ye  gods  !  it  was  most  strange  ! 

EUPHAS. 

To  thee  most  strange, 
Who  of  all  earthly  things  alone  dost  hold 
No  sympathy  with  aught  on  earth.     To  thee 
There  is  no  power  in  words  that  can  unfold 
The  steady  faith,  and  deep,  absorbing  love, 
That  brought  me  here.  —  I  have  not  yet  said  all. 

PISO. 
Not  all  ?     Why,  that  is  stranger  still.     Methought 


58  MIRIAM. 

Thou  hadst  run  through  each  supplicating  phrase 
Our  language  knows ;  and  in  good  truth,  although 
The  gods  themselves  are  scarce  more  wont  than  I 
To  hear  the  voice  of  prayer  and  agony, 
Yet  will  I  own  mine  ear  hath  never  drunk 
Tones  and  entreaties  eloquent  as  thine. 
Thou  hast  said  much,  fair  lad,  and  said  it  well, 
And  said  it  all  —  in  vain.  —  Dost  hear  ? 

EUPHAS. 

I  do. 

PISO. 

Why  !  thou  art  wondrous  calm  ! 
EUPHAS. 

Thou  man  of  blood  ! 
I  have  not  yet  said  all ! 

PISO. 

But  by  the  gods, 

Thou  hast !  for  I  will  hear  no  more  this  night. 
To-morrow,  if  I  'm  in  an  idle  mood, 
I  '11  hear  thee,  —  on  the  cross  ! 

EUPHAS. 

I  read  thine  eye, 

That  does  not  honor  me  with  wrath  or  scorn, 
But  marks  me  with  a  proud,  cold  weariness. 
Yet  will  I  utter  —  what  shall  bid  that  eye 
Flash  fire  ! 

PISO. 
Poor  fool !     I  marvel  I  have  spent 


MIRIAM.  59 

Even  thus  much  time  upon  thee.     Take  him  hence  ! 
Where  are  the  daring  slaves  who  marshalled  thee  ? 

EUPHAS. 
Where  is  thy  son  ? 

PISO. 
My  son  !  —  my  son,  saidst  thou  ? 

EUPHAS. 

Ay  !  —  where  is  he  1  thine  only  son  ?  —  and  Paulus, 
I  think,  the  name  he  nobly  bears. 
PISO. 

Gone  forth 
Upon  some  reckless  revel,  haply ;  I  know  not. 

Seekest  thou  time,  that  with  such  idle  quest 

EUPHAS. 
I  seek  thy  vulnerable  spot.     If  now 

I  fail !  —  Know'st  thou  not  aught,  —  whither,  —  or  how 

PISO. 

I  tell  thee,  no !     Read  me  thy  riddle,  boy  ! 
The  night  wears  on,  and  busy  hours  are  mine 

Ere  to  my  couch 

EUPHAS. 

The  couch  unvisited 

By  sleep  this  night  !     O,  were  it  not  for  those 
Whose  lives  hang  on  this  chance,  I  could  relent. 
How  can  I  aim  so  near  a  father's  heart? 

PISO. 
This  tardiness  and  would-be  mystery 


60  MIRIAM. 

Portend  a  mighty  tale.     Look  it  be  such. 
Why  !  what  knitted  brow  and  troubled  eye  ! 
Say  on,  and  hence  ! 

EUPHAS. 

Enough  !  —  Thou  hast  a  son, 
Whose  life  hangs  on  a  word,  —  a  syllable, — 
Breathed  from  thy  lips  ! 

PISO. 

Well !  excellent !     Go  on. 
EUPHAS. 

He  is  a  hostage  'mid  an  armed  band, 
A  pledge  thou  canst  not  sport  with,  for  the  lives 
We  came  to  beg.     Give  me  my  father  back, 
My  father  and  his  friends  from  yonder  cells, 
And  thou  shalt  have  thy  haughty  son  unscathed 

By  Christian  swords  !     But  if  they  bleed 

PISO. 

Say  on ; 
I  would  hear  all. 

EUPHAS. 

If  to  the  appointed  spot 

They  come  not  all,  —  age,  youth,  and  woman,  —  all,  — 
Ere  the  red  sun  shall  look  aslant  the  hills 
With  its  first  beam,  he  dies  ! 

PISO. 

And  is  this  all  ? 


MIRIAM.  61 

EUPHAS. 

Ay.     Now  have  I  said  much,  —  and  well,  —  and  not, 
Perchance,  in  vain  ! 

PISO. 

Lad,  were  there  but  one  chance 
Thou  e'er  mightst  profit  by  the  kind  advice, 
I  would  exhort  thee,  when  again  thou  seek'st 
To  save  thy  life  by  trick  and  cunning  tale, 
Make  thou  thy  story  prolable  !  —  Dost  hear  ? 

EUPHAS. 
How  !  dost  thou  doubt  ? 

PISO. 

I  should  as  soon  believe  thee, 
If  thou  assertedst  that  the  ocean  waves 
Were  dashing  high  around  my  palace-gates ; 
Or  that  the  thousand  Christians  I  have  slain 
Were  seeking  me  along  the  silent  streets, 
Moaning  and  glimmering  in  their  phantom-shrouds, 
At  this  lone  hour  of  midnight.  —  Thou  art  pale  : 
In  the  extremity  of  fear  hast  thou 
Devised  a  tale  so  wild  ? 

EUPHAS. 

I  may  be  pale  ; 

But  reperuse  my  brow,  and  see  if  there 
Is  aught  that  tokens  fear  ! 

PISO. 
Boy  !  there  is  that 

6 


62  MIEIAM. 

Within  thy  pensive  eye  I  cannot  meet, 
I  have  beheld  a  face  so  like  to  thine. 
Else  had  our  parley  shorter  been.  —  Away  ! 
I  will  behold  —  will  hear  thy  voice  no  more  ! 

EUPHAS. 

Forth  to  the  dungeon  must  I  go  ? 
PISO. 

Ay,  lad ! 
The  deepest,  —  darkest ! 

EUPHAS. 

So  it  be  but  that 

My  father  shareth,  I  care  not  how  dark. 
Darker  will  be  to-morrow's  noon  to  thee, 
Thou  childless  sire ! 

PISO. 

Can  it  be  true  ?     I  feel 
A  cold  and  sudden  shuddering  in  my  veins. 
Tell  me  once  more,  —  I  know  't  is  mockery, — 
Yet  would  I  hear  thy  tale  again,  false  boy  ! 

My  son,  thou  say'st 

EUPHAS. 

Circled  with  Christian  swords, 
Stands  waiting  thy  behest !  for  those  whose  friends 
This  night  have  fallen  within  thy  fatal  grasp 
Now  hold  thine  own  proud  darling  fast  in  bonds, 
Where  rescue  or  protecting  power  of  thine 
Cannot  avail  him  aught.     Revenge  thou  mayst, 


MIRIAM.  63 

But  canst  not  save  him,  —  but  by  sparing  those 
Whom  thou  didst  purpose  for  a  cruel  death. 

PISO. 
And  where,  —  in  what  dark  nook 

EUPHAS. 

Nay,  tyrant !  but 
Thou  canst  not  dream  that  I  will  answer  thee. 

PISO. 

I  will  send  forth  my  soldiers,  —  they  shall  search  ; 
It  may  be  false,  —  but  they  shall  overrun 
Palace  and  hut,  and  search  each  hiding-place 
In  all  this  mighty  city,  till  my  son 
Be  found  ! 

ETTPHAS. 

When  he  is  found ,  that  son  will  be  — 
Knowest  thou  what  ?     Sunrise  the  hour,  —  remember  ! 

PISO. 

Now  by  the  great  god  Mars  !  but  thou  shalt  die 
For  this,  be  thy  tale  false  or  true.     Till  now 
I  never  felt  these  firm  knees  tremble.  —  Speak  ! 
How  fell  my  noble  Paulus  in  the  gripe 
Of  yonder  ravening  wolves  ? 

EUPHAS. 

How  came  he  there  ? 
Alas  !  that  question  hath  a  dagger's  point. 
Man,  I  would  rather  die  than  answer  it ! 

PISO. 
But  thou  shalt  speak,  or  I  will  have  thy  bones 


64  MIRIAM.     ' 

Wrenched  from  their  sockets.  —  Stripling !  —  Silent  still  ? 
Bethink  thee,  thou  art  young  and  delicate  ; 
Thy  tender  limbs  have  a  keen  sense  of  pain  ! 

EUPHAS. 
In  dark  thoughts  am  I  lost,  —  but  not  of  that ! 

PISO. 

Answer  me  !  rouse  thee  from  thy  trance  !     Thou  'It  find 
A  stern  reality  around  thee  soon. 

EUPHAS. 

It  is  a  thought  to  search  the  very  soul ! 
And  yet  —  so  young  —  she  may  repent.  —  List,  Piso  ! 
It  is  a  short  but  melancholy  tale, 
And  if  my  heart  break  not  the  while,  in  brief 
Will  I  declare  how  fell  thy  haughty  son 

Into  the  power  of  Christian  foes.     He  sought 

I  have  a  sister, —  she  is  beautiful,  — 
Touched  by  three  summers  more  than  I  have  seen 
fnto  the  first  young  grace  of  womanhood,  —       * 
Lovely,  yet  thoughtful.  —  O  my  God  !  it  comes 
Upon  my  soul  too  heavily !  —  Proud  Roman  ! 
Art  thou  not  answered  ? 

PISO. 

I  am.     He  dies  ! 

EUPHAS. 

How! 

PISO. 

Ye  shall  all  die.     In  my  mighty  wrath 


MIRIAM.  65 

I  have  no  words,  —  no  frenzy  now  !     'T  is  deep, 
Too  deep  for  outward  show  !     But  he  shall  die, 
The  base,  degenerate  boy ! 

EUPHAS. 

Thou  speakest  now 
In  the  first  burst  of  fury. 

PISO. 

That  my  son 

Should  love  a  Christian  girl !     Foul,  foul  disgrace  ! 
Fury,  saidst  thou  ?     I  am  calm.     Look  on  me. 

EUPHAS. 

I  see  the  tiger  crouching  ere  he  springs. 
I  mark  the  livid  cheek,  the  bloodshot  eye, 
Hands  firmly  clenched,  and  swollen  veins.     Are  these 
Tokens  of  inward  calm  ? 

PISO. 

Now  am  I  free  ! 

My  son  hangs  not  upon  my  palsied  arm, 
Checking  the  half-dealt  blow  ! 

EUPHAS. 

Dost  thou  exult  ? 
O  Heaven !  to  think  such  spirits  are !     Wilt  thou, 

Piso,  indeed  forget 

PISO. 

Strange  error  thine 

To  tell  this  secret,  boy  !  —  I  loved  my  son, 
And  loved  naught  else  on  earth.     In  him  alone 
6* 


66  MIRIAM. 

Centred  the  wild,  blind  fondness  of  a  heart 
All  adamant,  except  for  him  !     And  thou,  — 
Thou,  foolish  youth,  hast  made  me  hate  and  scorn 

Him  whom  my  pride  and  love  Knowest  thou  not 

Thou  hast  but  sealed  thy  fate  ?     His  life  had  been 
More  precious  to  me  than  the  air  I  breathe  ; 
And  cheerfully  I  would  have  yielded  up 
A  thousand  Christian  dogs  from  yonder  dens 

To  save  one  hair  upon  his  head.     But  now 

A  Christian  maid  !  —  Were  there  none  other  ?  —  Gods  ! 
Shame  and  a  shameful  death  be  his,  —  and  thine  ! 

ETJPHAS. 

It  is  the  will  of  God.     My  hopes  burnt  dim 
Even  from  the  first,  and  are  extinguished  now. 
The  thirst  of  blood  hath  rudely  choked  at  last 
The  one  affection  which  thy  dark  breast  knew, 
And  thou  art  man  no  more.     Let  me  but  die 

First  of  thy  victims 

PISO. 

Would  that  she  among  them 

Where  is  the  sorceress  ?     I  fain  would  see 

The  beauty  that  hath  witched  Rome's  noblest  youth. 

EUPHAS. 
Hers  is  a  face  thou  never  wilt  behold. 

PISO. 
I  will.  —  On  her  shall  fall  my  worst  revenge  ; 

And  I  will  know  what  foul  and  magic  arts 

[MIRIAM  glides  in.    A  pause. 


MIRIAM.  67 

Beautiful  shadow  !  in  this  hour  of  wrath 

What  dost  thou  here  ?     In  life  thou  wert  too  meek, 

Too  gentle,  for  a  lover  stern  as  I. 

And  since  I  saw  thee  last,  my  days  have  been 

Deep  steeped  in  sin  and  blood  !     What  seekest  thou  ? 

I  have  grown  old  in  strife,  and  hast  thou  come, 

With  thy  dark  eyes  and  their  soul-searching  glance, 

To  look  me  into  peace  ?  —  It  cannot  be. 

Go  back,  fair  spirit,  to  thine  own  dim  realms ! 

He  whose  young  love  thou  didst  reject  on  earth 

May  tremble  at  this  visitation  strange, 

But  never  can  know  peace  or  virtue  more  ! 

Thou  wert  a  Christian,  and  a  Christian  dog 

Did  win  thy  precious  love.  —  I  have  good  cause 

To  hate  and  scorn  the  whole  detested  race ; 

And  till  I  meet  that  man,  whom  most  of  all 

My  soul  abhors,  will  I  go  on  and  slay  ! 

Fade,  vanish,  shadow  bright !  — In  vain  that  look  ! 

That  sweet,  sad  look !  —  My  lot  is  cast  in  blood  ! 

MIRIAM. 

0,  say  not  so  ! 

PISO. 

The  voice  that  won  me  first ! 
0,  what  a  tide  of  recollections  rush 
Upon  my  drowning  soul !  —  my  own  wild  love,  — 
Thy  scorn,  —  the  long,  long  days  of  blood  and  guilt 
That  since  have  left  their  footprints  on  my  fate  !  — 


68  MIRIAM. 

The  dark,  dark  nights  of  fevered  agony, 
When,  'mid  the  strife  and  struggling  of  my  dreams, 
The  gods  sent  thee  at  times  to  hover  round, 
Bringing  the  memory  of  those  peaceful  days 
When  I  beheld  thee  first !  —  But  never  yet 
Before  my  waking  eyes  hast  thou  appeared 
Distinct  and  visible  as  now !  —  Fair  spirit ! 
What  wouldst  thou  have  ? 

MIRIAM.  "• 

O  man  of  guilt  and  woe  ! 
Thine  own  dark  phantasies  are  busy  now, 
Lending  unearthly  seeming  to  a  thing 
Of  earth,  as  thou  art ! 

PISO. 

How  !     Art  thou  not  she  ? 
I  know  that  face  !     I  never  yet  beheld 
One  like  to  it  among  earth's  loveliest. 
Why  dost  thou  wear  that  semblance,  if  thou  art 
A  thing  of  mortal  mould  ?  —  O,  better  meet 
The  wailing  ghosts  of  those  whose  blood  doth  clog 
My  midnight  dreams,  than  that  half-pitying  eye  ! 

MIRIAM. 

Thou  art  a  wretched  man  !  and  I  do  feel 
Pity  even  for  the  suffering  guilt  hath  brought. 
But  from  the  quiet  grave  I  have  not  come, 
Nor  from  the  shadowy  confines  of  the  world 
Where  spirits  dwell,  to  haunt  thy  midnight  hour. 


MIRIAM.  69 

The  disembodied  should  be  passionless, 

And  wear  not  eyes  that  swim  in  earth-born  tears, 

As  mine  do  now  !  —  Look  up,  thou  conscience-struck  ! 

PISO. 

OIF!  off!     She  touched  me  with  her  damp,  cold  hand  ! 
But  't  was  a  hand  of  flesh  and  blood !  —  Away  ! 
Come  thou  not  near  me  till  I  study  thee. 

MIRIAM. 

Why  are  thine,  eyes  so  fixed  and  wild  ?  thy  lips 

Convulsed  and  ghastly  white  ?     Thine  own  dark  sins, 

Vexing  thy  soul,  have  clad  me  in  a  form 

Thou  dar'st  not  look  upon,  —  I  know  not  why. 

But  I  must  speak  to  thee.     'Mid  thy  remorse, 

And  the  unwonted  terrors  of  thy  soul, 

I  must  be  heard,  —  for  God  hath  sent  me  here. 

PISO. 
Who,  —  who  hath  sent  thee  here  ? 

MIRIAM. 

The  Christian's  God, 

The  God  thou  knowest  not.     He  hath  given  me  strength, 
And  led  me  safely  through  the  broad,  lone  streets, 
Even  at  the  midnight  hour  !     My  heart  sunk  not, 
My  noiseless  foot  paced  on  unfaltering 
Through  the  long  colonnades,  where  stood  aloft 
Pale  gods  and  goddesses  on  either  hand, 
Bending'  their  sightless  eyes  on  me  ;  by  founts, 
Waking  with  ceaseless  plash  the  midnight  air  ; 


70  MIRIAM. 

Through  moonlit  squares,  where  ever  and  anon 
Flashed  from  some  dusky  nook  the  red  torchlight, 
Flung  on  my  path  by  passing  reveller. 
And  He  hath  brought  me  here  before  thy  face ; 
And  it  was  He  who  smote  thee  even  now 
With  a  strange,  nameless  fear. 
PISO, 

Girl !  name  it  not. 

I  deemed  I  looked  on  one  whose  bright  young  face 
First  glanced  upon  me  'mid  the  shining  leaves 
Of  a  green  bower  in  sunny  Palestine, 
In  my  youth's  prime  !     I  knew  the  dust, 
The  grave's  corroding  dust,  had  soiled 
That  spotless  brow  long  since.     A  shadow  fell 
Upon  the  soul  that  never  yet  knew  fear. 
But  it  is  past.     Earth  holds  not  what  I  dread  ; 
And  what  the  gods  did  make  me  am  I  now. 
What  seekest  thou  ? 

EUPHAS. 

Miriam  !  go  thou  hence. 
Why  shouldst  thou  die  ? 

MIRIAM. 

Brother ! 

PISO. 

Ha  !  is  this  so  ? 

Now,  by  the  gods !  —  Bar,  bar  the  gates,  ye  slaves ! 
If  they  escape  me  now Why,  this  is  good  ! 


MIRIAM.  71 

I  had  not  dreamed  of  hap  so  glorious. 
She  that  beguiled  my  son  !     His  sister  ! 

MIRIAM. 

Peace  ! 
Name  not  with  tongue  unhallowed  love  like  ours. 

PISO. 

Thou  art  her  image,  —  and  the  mystery 
Confounds  my  purposes.     Take  other  form, 
Foul  sorceress,  and  I  will  baffle  thee ! 

MIRIAM. 

I  have  no  other  form  than  this  God  gave  ; 
And  he  already  hath  stretched  forth  his  hand 
And  touched  it  for  the  grave. 

PISO. 

It  is  most  strange. 

Is  not  the  air  around  her  full  of  spells  ? 
Give  me  the  son  thou  hast  seduced  ! 

MIRIAM. 

Hear,  Piso  ! 

Thy  son  hath  seen  me,  —  loved  me,  —  and  hath  won 
A  heart  too  prone  to  worship  noble  things, 
Although  of  earth,  —  and  he,  alas !  was  earth's. 
I  strove,  I  prayed,  in  vain  !     In  all  things  else 
I  might  have  stirred  his  soul's  best  purposes. 
But  for  the  pure  and  cheering  faith  of  Christ, 
There  was  no  entrance  in  that  iron  soul. 
And  I Amid  such  hopes  despair  arose, 


72  MIRIAM. 

And  laid  a  withering  hand  upon  my  heart. 
I  feel  it  yet !  —  We  parted  !     Ay,  this  night 
We  met  to  meet  no  more. 

EUPHAS. 

Sister  !  my  tears 

They  choke  my  words,  —  else 

MIRIAM. 

Euphas,  thou  wert  wroth 

When  there  was  little  cause  ;  —  I  loved  thee  more. 
Thy  very  frowns  in  such  a  holy  cause 
Were  beautiful.     The  scorn  of  virtuous  youth, 
Looking  on  fancied  sin,  is  noble. 
PISO. 

Maid! 

Hath  then  my  son  withstood  thy  witchery, 
And  on  this  ground  ye  parted  ? 

MIRIAM. 

It  is  so. 

Alas  that  I  rejoice  to  tell  it  thee  ! 
PISO. 

Nay,  well  thou  mayst,  for  it  hath  wrought  his  pardon. 
That  he  had  loved  thee  would  have  been  a  sin 
Too  full  of  degradation,  infamy, 
Had  not  these  cold  and  aged  eyes  themselves 
Beheld  thee  in  thy  loveliness !     And  yet,  bold  girl ! 
Think  not  thy  Jewish  beauty  is  the  spell 
That  works  on  one  grown  old  in  deeds  of  blood. 


MIRIAM.  73 

I  have  looked  calmly  on  when  eyes  as  bright 

Were  drowned  in  tears  of  bitter  agony, 

When  forms  as  full  of  grace  —  and  pride,  perchance  - — 

Were  writhing  in  the  sharpness  of  their  pain, 

And  cheeks  as  fair  were  mangled 

EUPHAS. 

Tyrant,  cease  ! 

Wert  thou  a  fiend,  such  brutal  boasts  as  these 
Were  not  for  ears  like  hers  ! 

MIRIAM. 

I  tremble  not. 

He  spake  of  pardon  for  his  guiltless  son, 
And  that  includeth  life  for  those  I  love. 
What  need  I  more  ? 

EUPHAS. 

Let  us  go  hence  at  once. 
Bid  thou  thy  myrmidons  unbar  the  gates 
That  shut  our  friends  from  light  and  air. 
PISO. 

Not  yet, 

My  haughty  boy,  for  we  have  much  to  say, 
Ere  you  two  pretty  birds  go  free.     Chafe  not ! 
Ye  are  caged  close,  and  can  but  flutter  here 
Till  I  am  satisfied. 

MIRIAM. 

How  !  hast  thou  changed 

7 


74  MIRIAM. 

PISO. 

Nay,  but  I  must  detain  ye  till  I  ask 

MIRIAM. 

Detain  us  if  thou  wilt.     But  look  ! 

PISO. 

At  what  ? 

MIRIAM. 

There,  through  yon  western  arch  !  —  the  moon  sinks  low. 
The  mists  already  tinge  her  orb  with  blood. 
Methinks  I  feel  the  breeze  of  morn  even  now. 
Know'st  thou  the  hour  ? 

PISO. 

I  do,  —  but  one  thing  more 
I  fain  would  know  ;  for  after  this  wild  night 
Let  me  no  more  behold  you.     Why  didst  thou, 
Bold,  dark-haired  boy,  wear  in  those  pleading  eyes,  , 
When  thou  didst  name  thy  boon,  an  earnest  look 
That  fell  familiar  on  my  soul  ?     And  thou, 
The  lofty,  calm,  and,  O,  most  beautiful ! 
Why  are  not  only  that  soul-searching  glance, 
But  even  thy  features  and  thy  silver  voice, 
So  like  to  hers  I  loved  long  years  ago, 
Beneath  Judea's  palms  ?     Whence  do  ye  come  ? 

MIRIAM. 

For  me,  I  bear  my  own  dear  mother's  brow ; 
Her  eye,  her  form,  her  very  voice,  are  mine. 
So,  in  his  tears,  my  father  oft  hath  said. 


.   MIRIAM.  75 

We  lived  beneath  Judea's^  shady  palms, 
Until  that  saintlike  mother  faded,  —  drooped,  — 
And  died.     Then  hither  came  we  o'er  the  waves, 
And  till  this  night  have  worshipped  faithfully 
The  One,  True,  Living  God,  in  secret  peace. 

PISO. 

Thou  art  her  child  !     I  could  not  harm  thee  now. 
O,  wonderful !  that  things  so  long  forgot,  — 
A  love  I  thought  so  crushed  and  trodden  down 
Even  by  the  iron  tread  of  passions  wild,  — 
Ambition,  pride,  and  worst  of  all,  revenge,  — 
Revenge  that  hath  shed  seas  of  Christian  blood  !  — 
To  think  this  heart  was  once  so  waxen  soft, 
And  then  congealed  so  hard,  that  naught  of  all 
Which  hath  been  since  could  ever  have  the  power 
To  wear  away  the  image  of  that  girl,  — 
That  fair,  young  Christian  girl  !  —  'T  was  a  wild  love  ! 
But  I  was  young,  a  soldier  in  strange  lands, 
And  she,  in  very  gentleness,  said  nay 
So  timidly,  I  hoped, —  until,  ye  gods  ! 
She  loved  another  !     Yet  I  slew  him  not ! 
I  fled  !  —  O,  had  I  met  him  since  ! 

EUPHAS. 

Come,  sister ! 
The  hours  wear  on. 

PISO. 
Ye  shall  go  forth  in  joy, 


76  MIRIAM. 

And  take  with  you  yon  prisoners.     Send  my  son  — 

Him  whom  she  did  not  bear  —  home  to  these  arms, 

And  go  ye  out  of  Rome  with  all  your  train. 

I  will  shed  blood  no  more  ;  for  I  have  known 

What  sort  of  peace  deep-glutted  vengeance  brings. 

My  son  is  brave,  but  of  a  gentler  mind 

Than  I  have  been.     His  eyes  shall  never  more 

Be  grieved  with  sight  of  sinless  blood  poured  forth 

From  tortured  veins.     Go  forth,  ye  gentle  two  ! 

Children  of  her  who  might  perhaps  have  poured 

Her  own  meek  spirit  o'er  my  nature  stern, 

Since  the  bare  image  of  her  buried  charms, 

Soft  gleaming  from  your  youthful  brows,  hath  power 

To  stir  my  spirit  thus !     But  go  ye  forth  ! 

Ye  leave  an  altered  and  a  milder  man 

Than  him  ye  sought.     Tell  Paulus  this, 

To  quicken  his  young  steps. 

MIRIAM. 

Now  may  the  peace 

That  follows  just  and  worthy  deeds  be  thine  ! 
And  may  deep  truths  be  born,  'mid  thy  remorse, 
In  the  recesses  of  thy  soul,  to  make 
That  soul  even  yet  a  shrine  of  holiness. 

EUPHAS. 

Piso  !  how  shall  we  pass  yon  steel-clad  men, 
Keeping  stern  vigil  round  the  dungeon  gate  ? 

PISO. 
Take  ye  my  well-known  ring, —  and  here,  —  the  list, 


MIRIAM.  77 

Ay,  this  is  it,  methinks  :  show  these Great  gods  ! 

ETJPHAS. 

What  is  there  on  yon  scroll  which  shakes  him  thus  ? 

B1IR1AM. 

A  name,  at  which  he  points  with  stiffening  hand, 
And  eyeballs  full  of  wrath  !  — Alas  !  alas  ! 
I  guess  too  well.  —  My  brother,  droop  thou  not. 

PISO. 

Your  father,  did  ye  say  ?     Was  it  his  life 
Ye  came  to  beg  ? 

MIRIAM. 

His  life  ;  but  not  alone 
The  life  so  dear  to  us  ;  for  he  hath  friends 
Sharing  his  fetters  and  his  final  doom. 

PISO. 

Little  reck  I  of  them.     Tell  me  his  name  !  [A  pause. 

Speak,  boy  !  or  I  will  tear  thee  piecemeal ! 
MIRIAM. 

Stay! 

Stern  son  of  violence !  the  name  thou  askest 
Is  —  is  —  Thraseno  ! 

PISO. 

Well  I  knew  it,  girl ! 

Now,  by  the  gods,  had  I  not  been  entranced, 
I  sooner  had  conjectured  this.  —  Foul  name  ! 
Thus  do  I  tear  thee  out,  —  and  even  thus 
Rend  with  my  teeth  !  —  O  rage  !  she  wedded  him, 

7* 


78  f        MIRIAM. 

And  ever  since  that  hated  name  hath  been 

The  voice  of  serpents  in  mine  ear  !  —  But  now 

Why  go  ye  not  ?  Here  is  your  list !  and  all, 
Ay,  every  one  whose  name  is  here  set  down, 
Will  my  good  guards  forthwith  release  you  ! 

MIRIAM. 

•  Piso ! 

In  mercy  mock  us  not !  children  of  her 

Whom  thou  didst  love 

PISO. 

Ay,  maid  !  but  ye  are  his 

Whom  I  do  hate  !     That  chord  is  broken  now,  — 
Its  music  hushed  !     Is  she  not  in  her  grave,  — 
And  he  —  within  my  grasp  ? 

MIRIAM. 

Where  is  thy  peace,  — 
Thy  penitence  ? 

PISO. 

,  Fled  all,  —  a  moonbeam  brief 

Upon  a  stormy  sea.     That  magic  name 
Hath  roused  the  wild,  loud  winds  again.  —  Begone  ! 
Save  whom  ye  may. 

MIRIAM. 

Piso  !  I  go  not  hence 
Until  my  father's  name  be  on  this  scroll. 

PISO. 

Take  root,  then,  where  thou  art !  for  by  dark  Styx 
I  swear 


MIRIAM. 
MIRIAM. 

Nay,  swear  thou  not,  till  I  am  heard. 
Hast  thou  forgot  thy  son  ? 

PISO. 

No  !  let  him  die, 

So  that  I  have  my  long-deferred  revenge  ! 
Thy  lip  grows  pale  !  —  Art  thou  not  answered  now  ? 

MIRIAM. 

Deep  horror  falls  upon  me  !     Can  it  be 
Such  demon  spirits  dwell  on  earth? 

PISO. 

Bold  maiden ! 

While  thou  art  safe,  go  hence  ;  for  in  his  might 
The  tiger  wakes  within  me  ! 

MIRIAM. 

Be  it  so. 

He  can  but  rend  me  where  I  stand.     And  here, 
Living  or  dying,  will  I  raise  my  voice 
In  a  firm  hope  !     The  God  that  brought  me  here 
Is  round  me  in  the  silent  air.     On  me 
Falleth  the  influence  of  an  unseen  Eye  ! 
And  in  the  strength  of  secret,  earnest  prayer, 
This  awful  consciousness  doth  nerve  my  frame. 
Thou  man  of  evil  and  ungoverned  soul, 
My  father  thou  mayst  slay  !     Flames  will  not  fall 
From  heaven  to  scorch  and  wither  thee  !     The  earth 
Will  gape  not  underneath  thy  feet !     And  peace, 


80  MIRIAM. 

Mock,  hollow,  seeming  peace,  may  shadow  still 
Thy  home  and  hearth  !     But  deep  within  thy  breast 
A  fierce,  consuming  fire  shall  ever  dwell. 
Each  night  shall  ope  a  gulf  of  horrid  dreams 
To  swallow  up  thy  soul.     The  livelong  day 
That  soul  shall  yearn  for  peace  and  quietness, 
As  the  hart  panteth  for  the  water-brooks, 
And  know  that  even  in  death  —  is  no  repose  ! 
And  this  shall  be  thy  life  !     Then  a  dark  hour 

Will  surely  come 

PISO. 

Maiden,  be  warned  !    All  this 
I  know.     It  moves  me  not. 

MIRIAM. 

Nay,  one  thing  more 

Thou  knowest  not.     There  is  on  all  this  earth  — 
Full  as  it  is  of  young  and  gentle  hearts  — 
One  man  alone  that  loves  a  wretch  like  thee  ; 
And  he,  thou  say'st,  must  die  !     All  other  eyes 
Do  greet  thee  with  a  cold  or  wrathful  look, 
Or,  in  the  baseness  of  their  fear,  shun  thine ; 
And  he  whose  loving  glance  alone  spake  peace 
Thou  say'st  must  die  in  youth  !     Thou  know'st  not  yet 
The  deep  and  bitter  sense  of  loneliness, 
The  throes  and  achings  of  a  childless  heart, 
Which  yet  will  all  be  thine  !     Thou  know'st  not  yet 
What  't  is  to  wander  'mid  thy  spacious  halls, 


MIRIAM.  81 

And  find  them  desolate  !  —  wildly  to  start 

From  thy  deep  musings  at  the  distant  sound 

Of  voice  or  step  like  his,  and  sink  back  sick  — 

Ay,  sick  at  heart  —  with  dark  remembrances  ! 

To  dream  thou  seest  him  as  in  years  gone  by, 

When,  in  his  bright  and  joyous  infancy, 

His  laughing  eyes  amid  thick  curls  sought  thine, 

And  his  soft  arms  were  twined  around  thy  neck, 

And  his  twin  rosebud  lips  just  lisped  thy  name,  — 

Yet  feel  in  agony  't  is  but  a  dream  ! 

Thou  know'st  not  yet  what  't  is  to  lead  the  van 

Of  armies  hurrying  on  to  victory, 

Yet,  in  the  pomp  and  glory  of  that  hour, 

Sadly  to  miss  the  well-known  snowy  plume, 

Whereon  thine  eyes  were  ever  proudfy  fixed 

In  battle-field  !  —  to  sit,  at  midnight  deep, 

Alone  within  thy  tent,  —  all  shuddering,  — 

When,  as  the  curtained  door  lets  in  the  breeze, 

Thy  fancy  conjures  up  the  gleaming  arms 

^ 

And  bright  young  hero-face  of  him  who  once 

Had  been  most  welcome  there  !  —  and  worst  of  all 

PISO. 

It  is  enough  !     The  gift  of  prophecy 
Is  on  thee,  maid  !     A  power  that  is  not  thine 
Looks  out  from  that  dilated,  awful  form,  — 
Those  eyes  deep-flashing  with  unearthly  light,  — 
And  stills  my  soul.  —  My  Paulus  must  not  die  ! 
And  yet  —  to  give  up  thus  the  boon 


82  MIRIAM. 

MIRIAM. 

What  boon? 

A  boon  of  blood  ?  —  To  him,  the  good  old  man, 
Death  is  not  terrible,  but  only  seems 
A  dark,  short  passage  to  a  land  of  light, 
Where,  'mid  high  ecstasy,  he  shall  behold 
The  unshrouded  glories  of  his  Maker's  face, 
And  learn  all  mysteries,  and  gaze  at  last 
Upon  the  ascended  Prince,  and  never  more 
Know  grief  or  pain,  or  part  from  those  he  loves  ! 
Yet  will  his  blood  cry  loudly  from  the  dust, 
And  bring  deep  vengeance  on  his  murderer  ! 

PISO. 

My  Paulus  must  not  die  !     Let  me  revolve 

Maiden  !  thy  words  have  sunk  into  my  soul ; 

Yet  would  I  ponder  ere  I  thus  lay  down 

A  purpose  cherished  in  my  inmost  heart, 

That  which  hath  been  my  dream  by  night,  —  by  day 

My  life's  sole  aim.     Have  I  not  deeply  sworn, 

Long'years  ere  thou  wert  born,  that  should  the  gods 

E'er  give  him  to  my  rage, — and  yet  I  pause  ?  — 

Shall  Christian  vipers  sting  mine  only  son, 

And  I  not  crush  them  into  nothingness  ? 

Am  I  so  pinioned,  vain,  and  powerless  ? 

Work,  busy  brain !  thy  cunning  must  not  fail.          [  Retires. 

EUPHAS. 
My  sister  !  thou  art  spent. 


MIRIAM.  83 

MIRIAM. 

Not  yet ;  although 

The  strange  excitement  of  my  spirit  dies, 
And  stern  suspense  is  fretting  fast  away 
The  ties  which  hold  that  spirit  from  its  home, 
Yet  shall  I  linger  till  my  task  be  done. 
Look  !  on  that  moody  brow  what  dost  thou  read  ? 

ETJPHAS. 

Alas  !  no  hope.     And  yet  methinks  a  smile 
Of  inward  exultation  sudden  gleams 
Athwart  his  features,  like  a  distant  flash 
Of  lurid  lightning  'mid  thick  clouds.     My  sister  ! 
I  like  it  not. 

MIRIAM. 

He  marks  us  watching  him, 
And  with  a  brightening  aspect  draweth  nigh. 

PISO. 

Children  !  go  hence  in  peace,  for  I  have  held 
Communion  with  my  own  fierce,  warring  thoughts, 
And  there  is  something  there  which  pleads  your  cause. 
I  cannot  live  on  this  dark  earth  alone ; 
I  cannot  die,  if  burdened  with  his  blood  ; 
I  cannot  give  my  brave  and  only  son 
To  buy  the  luxury  of  my  revenge  ! 
So  ye  have  won  your  boon,  and  I  must  stake 
My  Paulus  too  on  your  fidelity  ! 
Ye  might  deceive  me  ;  but  I  read  you  well, 


84  MIRIAM. 

Two  young,  high-minded  souls  ;  —  to  you  I  trust 
All  that  I  hold  most  dear.     In  peace  and  hope 
Go  hence,  and  send  him  home. 

MIRIAM. 

Go  hence  !  and  how  ? 
Leaving  behind  us  those  for  whom  we  came  ? 

PISO. 

Fear  not,  for  they  shall  follow  thee.     This  hour, 
This  instant,  will  I  take  myself  the  way 
That  leads  down  to  their  dwellings  dark  and  drear, 
And  set  them  free. 

MIRIAM. 

And  we  will  cling  to  thee, 

Blessing  the  hand  which  breaks  a  father's  chains, 
And  thou  shalt  see  our  meeting,  and  rejoice 
To  think  that  thou  hast  caused  such  happiness. 

PISO. 

Nay,  maiden  !  dost  forget  ?     My  Paulus  stands 
In  jeopardy,  and  ye  may  be  too  late  ! 
Seek  ye  my  son,  while  I  release  your  friends. 

EUPHAS. 

Piso  !  we  cannot  sound  the  depths  of  guile 
Within  that  cold  and  crafty  breast ;  —  but  woe  ! 
If  we  should  trust,  and  be  deceived ! 

PISO. 

How  !  do  ye  wrong  me  thus  ?     Can  such  distrust 
Spring  up  in  youthful  hearts  ? 


MIRIAM.  8 

MIRIAM. 

We  have  good  cause 
To  doubt  a  Pagan,  when  he  talks  of  peace 

Or  mercy  for  his  Christian  foes.     And  yet 

PISO. 

Ye  will  go  forth,  —  for  ye  can  do  naught  else. 
It  is  your  destiny. 

MIRIAM. 

We  will  not  dream 

There  can  be  perfidy  so  base.     We  trust, 
And  by  the  confidence  of  innocence 
Will  we  disarm  thy  wrath. 

EUPHAS. 

Nay,  sister,  more. 

He  cannot  mock  us  now,  for  we  still  hold 
Our  pledge  until  his  promise  be  redeemed. 
PISO. 

Then  go.     If  harm  betide  my  son I  see 

A  dull  gray  light  along  the  east !  —  Begone  ! 
MIRIAM. 

Swear  to  us  first 

PISO. 

What  would  ye  have  ?     I  swear, 
Both  by  my  gods  and  by  the  sacred  Styx, 
And  by  the  precious  blood  of  that  one  son, 
That  I  will  take  your  father  and  his  friends 
From  yonder  cells,  and  send  them  where  ye  list, 


86  MIRIAM. 

Before  yon  stars  grow  dim !     Is  it  enough  ? 

MIRIAM. 
Alone,  too,  must  they  come. 

PISO. 

Ay,  girl,  alone. 
MIRIAM. 

And  tell  them  they  must  seek  that  lonely  spot 
Where  we  all  met  three  nights  ago. 

PISO. 

I  will. 
Aught  more  ? 

MIRIAM. 

No,  naught.     And  now,  when  we  behold 
The  glad  procession  drawing  nigh,  with  joy 
Will  we  release  brave  Paulus  from  our  thrall, 
And  send  him  back  to  comfort  thine  old  age. 
And  he  will  shield  us  from  all  other  harm, 
While  we  make  haste  to  quit  this  bloody  land, 
Some  for  a  calmer  home  on  earth,  and  one 
For  yonder  skies ! 

PISO. 

Speed  hence  !  watch  o'er  my  son, 
And  by  the  appointed  hour  even  yet  your  friends 
Shall  be  with  you.     Remember,  ye  are  bound 
To  loose  him  soon  as  ye  descry  their  train  ; 
And  bid  him  borrow  wings  to  fly  and  ease 
A  heart  that  hath  been  racked  for  him  this  night, 


MIRIAM.  87 

A  heart  that  can  be  touched  through  him  alone. 

EUPHAS. 

Let  us  depart,  though  fear  and  doubt  still  brood 
Upon  our  souls. 

MIRIAM. 

Euphas  !  we  will  not  leave 
Such  words  to  rankle  in  a  softened  heart. 
Piso  !  the  child  of  her  whom  thou  once  loved 
Leaves  thee  a  blessing  for  the  kindly  hope 
Thy  words  have  given.     Thine  be  a  long  old  age 
Of  calm  and  penitence,  —  stayed  by  the  arm 
Of  him  whom  I  shall  see  but  once,  —  once  more  ! 

Farewell !     I  yield Euphas  !  uphold  my  steps. 

This  palace  shall  be  his  abode,  when  I 
Am  silent  in  my  grave  !     Will  he  forget 
That  there  was  once  a  Miriam  ?  —  Lead  forth  ; 
The  air  will  give  me  strength ;  and  we  will  thank 
Him  who  hath  bid  a  gladsome  light  shine  in 
On  hearts  that  were  a  chaos  of  despair. 
My  father  saved  ! 

PISO. 

And  I  may  be  deceived  ! 
Yet  I  do  trust  you.  —  Haste  !  it  is  the  dawn, 
Gleaming  through  yon  arcade,  that  bids  your  cheeks 
Look  pale,  and  dims  my  tapers  thus.     Depart. 
If  ye  should  be  too  late,  earth  hath  no  cave 
To  hide  you  from  my  wrath !  [Exeunt. 


88  MIRIAM. 


SCENE   III. 

A  rising  Ground  in  a  deserted  Garden,  near  the  City  Walls.  —  PAULUS, 
and  CHRISTIANS  keeping  guard. 

PAULTTS. 

I  have  gazed  upward  on  yon  twinkling  gems 

Until  my  eyes  grew  dim  ;  and  then  have  turned 

To  look  upon  the  starlit  face  of  things, 

Obscure,  yet  beautiful,  and  watched  the  moon 

Reddening  'mid  earthborn  mists,  and  verging  fast 

To  yonder  hilly  west,  each  in  its  turn,  — 

Hoping  the  outward  calm  of  things  so  fair 

Might  sink,  as  erst,  into  a  troubled  breast, 

And  breathe  their  own  deep  quiet  o'er  my  soul. 

Such  things  have  been,  but  not  for  hours  like  these. 

My  brow  is  wet  with  dew,  and  yet  burns  on  ! 

My  eye  drinks  in  a  placid  scene,  yet  fills, 

Fills  to  the  brim  with  silent,  blinding  tears ! 

And  my  heart  beats  against  my  aching  breast 

With  throbs  of  agony  !  —  My  Miriam  ! 

Thou  in  thine  innocence  wilt  die,  —  ay,  die 

By  a  most  cruel  death !     And  I  am  here, 

Bound  in  a  strange  and  vile  captivity  ! 

'T  was  the  sole  hope,  —  and  now  I  feel  't  was  vain ! 


MIRIAM.  89 

I  have  no  pewer  to  thrust  the  image  stern 
Out  of  my  soul,  —  thee,  trembling,  cold,  and  pale, 
Bowing  thy  gentle  head  with  murmured  prayers 
Beneath  rough  hands  that  bind  thee  to  the  cross. 
Ye  gods  !  the  rest, — the  rest !  —  let  me  go  mad, 
Ye  pitying  gods,  and  so  escape  the  worst, 
Knowledge  of  that  I  cannot  see,  yet  know. 
And  if,  with  strength  by  thrilling  horror  given, 
I  call  my  wandering  fancy  home,  and  chain 

Thought  to  the  present What  were  Death's  worst  pangs, 

Could  I  but  meet  him  in  the  battle-field, 
Waving  on  high  my  own  red-flashing  sword, 
Meeting  my  death-blow  in  the  hottest  strife, 
Dying  with  shouts  of  victory  in  mine  ears, 
Frowns  on  my  brow,  proud  smiles  upon  my  lips  ? 
Alas !  the  death  of  brutes,  vain  struggles,  groans, 
And  butchery,  await  me  here  ! 

Ye  stars  ! 

I  watch  you  in  your  silent  march !     I  mark 
How  one  by  one  ye  kiss  yon  shadowy  hills, 
And  steal  into  the  chambers  of  the  west, 
Sinking  for  ever  from  my  eyes  !     Farewell ! 
I  shall  not  see  you  rise  !     A  few  brief  hours, 
Ye,  in  your  tranquil  beauty,  shall  look  down 
Once  more  upon  the  spot  where  now  I  stand, 
And  there  behold  me  not.     But  ye  shall  see 
Token  of  bloody  deed,  —  the  pure  turf  stained,  — 


90  MIRIAM. 

The  scabbard  haply  cast  in  haste  away,  — 
And  boughs  strewn  rudely  o'er  the  darkest  spot 
That  tells  the  foul,  foul  tale  of  violence  ! 
And  what  of  this  ?  or  why,  at  such  an  hour, 
Revel  my  thoughts  in  idle  circumstance, 
Availing  naught  ?     I  know  not,  —  I  hold  not 
The  clews  that  guide  my  spirit's  wanderings; 
And  when  they  list,  wild,  dark  imaginings 
Arise  unbidden  ! 

How  !  ye  do  grow  dim, 

Fair  stars  !     The  breeze  that  fans  my  cheek 

Freshens  with  morn,  and  yonder  glowing  moon 

Rests  her  broad  rim  upon  the  distant  hills, 

And  I  descry  a  cypress,  tall  and  dark, 

Drawn  with  its  spreading  boughs  against  her  disk. 

My  hours  ebb  low,  and  I  will  watch  no  more 

The  heavens  and  earth  with  dim  and  aching  eyes. 

There  is  no  calm  within,  —  and  that  without 

Makes  but  a  broken  image  on  my  soul,  — 

A  faithful  mirror  once  of  all  things  fair ! 

(Sits  down  on  a  rock  and  hides  his  face  with  his  hands.  — A  long  pause.) 
FIRST    CHRISTIAN. 

Friends  !  by  which  path  think  ye  they  will  approach  ? 

SECOND    CHRISTIAN. 

By  this.     We  shall  descry  them  from  afar, 
Threading  the  trees  that  fringe  the  river's  bank. 

PAULTJS. 

I  had  forgotten  my  stern  guards,  until 


MIRIAM.  91 

Their  hollow  voices  woke  me  from  vain  dreams,  — 

Vain  dreams  of  other  days  !  — Ye  gods,  how  light ! 

The  sky  is  full  of  light,  and  golden  clouds 

Are  floating  softly  in  the  crimson  east,  — 

Fit  homes  for  those  pure,  bright-winged,  angel  forms 

Which,  Miriam  says,  do  serve  her  God  in  heaven  ! 

I  hear  the  gentle  stir  of  waking  birds 

Among  the  boughs  that  rustle  o'er  my  head  ; 

And,  motionless  as  rocks,  I  dimly  see 

The  forms  of  men  beneath  the  shadowing  trees, 

Leaning  upon  their  swords,  —  keeping  stern  guard 

O'er  one  poor,  unarmed  wretch  !  —  O,  why  have  I 

No  weapon  in  extremity  like  this?  [A pause. 

What  was  that  soft,  sweet  note  ?     The  prelude  faint 

To  the  full  matin  concert  of  glad  hearts 

Joying  to  see  the  morn !  —  Ay,  there  thou  go'st, 

Up  to  the  skies,  fair  bird  !  and,  cleaving  swift 

The  balmy  air  with  soft  and  busy  wing, 

Thou  pourest  forth  thy  soul  in  melody ! 

I  envy  thee,  —  though  I  almost  forget 

What  't  is  that  vexes  me  while  thus  I  watch 

Thine  upward  flight !     But  thou  art  gone,  —  and  I,  — 

I  am  on  earth,  dark  earth,  and  have  no  wings 

To  bear  me  up  to  yonder  happy  realms  ! 

FIRST    CHRISTIAN. 

Seest  thou  aught  ? 

SECOND    CHRISTIAN. 

Naught  but  the  willow-boughs, 


92  MIRIAM. 

Waving  and  whispering  in  the  rising  breeze. 

PAULUS. 

Ye  watch  in  vain.     They  will  not,  cannot  come  ! 
My  own  wild  hope  hath  fled  ;  my  heart  is  sick. 
I  hear  chains  rattling  on  their  youthful  limbs  ;  * 
I  see  them  gasping  'mid  the  dungeon  damps, 
Closed  in  with  dark,  strong  walls  !     They  cannot  come  ! 

FIRST    CHRISTIAN. 

The  hour  draws  nigh. 

PAULUS. 

Ay,  on  the  river's  face 

Vanish  the  dull,  red  specks,  that  all  night  long 
Glimmered,  in  faint  reflection  of  the  lamps 
That  lit  the  student's  task,  the  sick  man's  couch. 
Life  wakes  throughout  the  city.  —  Rome,  my  home  ! 
How  beautiful  art  thou  !  —  thus  stealing  forth 
From  the  deep-veiling  darkness  of  the  night,  — 
A  wilderness  of  gardens,  palaces, 
And  stately  fanes  !  —  I  cannot  see  the  roof, 
The  one  proud  roof  I  seek  ! 

FIRST    CHRISTIAN. 

Pagan, I  know 
Thou  fear'st  not  death.     Art  thou  prepared  to  die  ? 

PAULUS. 

Ay,  any  death,  save  that  thou  purposest. 
Had  I  a  sword 

FIRST    CHRISTIAN. 

Hast  thou  no  need  of  prayer  ? 


MIRIAM.  93 

PAULUS. 

Of  prayer  ?     Why  should  I  pray  ?     Have  I  not  served 
The  ungrateful  gods  too  faithfully  ?     Alas  ! 
I  know  not  what  I  say  !  —  Trouble  me  not, 
I  do  conjure  thee,  Christian !  —  Is  't  the  hour  ? 
A  mist  is  on  mine  eyes. 

FIRST    CHRISTIAN. 

Not  yet.     There  's  time 

PAULUS. 

0  god  of  day  !  why  are  thy  chariot-wheels 

So  slow  ?     Would  that  thy  earliest  beam  had  power 

To  strike  me  into  ashes !     Such  a  death 

Would  have  no  horrors  for  a  Roman  youth. 

But  in  cold  blood Christian !  what  seest  thou  ? 

SECOND    CHRISTIAN. 

A  wreath  of  mist  that  sails  along  the  stream. 
PAULUS. 

1  will  be  patient.     Could  I  think  of  aught,  — 

No  matter  what,  —  save  her,  and  this  vile  death,  — 
Such  death  as  cowards  die  !  — Could  I  but  pierce, 
Were  it  but  with  one  brief  and  shuddering  glance, 
The  cloudy  curtain  hanging  o'er  the  grave !  — 
O,  new,  and  strange,  and  awful,  are  the  thoughts, 
Dim  forming  in  this  whirling  brain !     Her  words 
Come  thrilling  back  upon  my  soul  with  might 
Most  like  the  might  of  solemn  truth,  that  wars 
With  blind  and  steadfast  prejudice  !  —  Ha  !  look  ! 


94  MIRIAM. 

Two  forms  come  gliding  yonder  'mid  the  trees ! 

FIRST    CHRISTIAN. 

They  come  !  —  What  may  this  mean  ? 

PAULUS. 

Alas  !  —  alone  ! 

FIRST    CHRISTIAN. 

With  weary  steps  and  slow  the  pair  ascend 
The  hill  of  blood,  —  for  such  this  spot  must  be  ! 
They  are  indeed  alone  !  and  grief,  methinks, 
Is  in  their  steps  ! 

PAULUS. 

She  droops  !  their  prayer  was  vain  ; 
And  my  stern  father  hath  forgotten  all 
That  gave  his  bosom  aught  of  human  touch. 
His  hand  hath  signed  my  early  doom  !  —  Ye  gods  ! 
Bear  witness  how  I  bless  that  bloody  fate, 
Since  on  the  heads  of  yonder  sinless  pair 
My  father's  hand  hath  wrought  no  cruel  deed  ! 

FIRST    CHRISTIAN. 

Their  safety  doth  amaze  me. 

PAULUS. 

Nay,  the  gods 

Are  sometimes  touched  by  rarest  innocence, 
And  do  by  miracle  melt  iron  hearts. 
Slowly  they  mount  —  Ha!  hidden  by  thick  boughs  — 
Christian  !  I  do  implore  thee,  do  the  deed  ! 
Spare  those  mild,  youthful  eyes  the  sight  of  blood, 


MIRIAM.  95 

Forth  following  the  dagger's  point !     Be  quick, 
And  so  be  merciful ! 

FIRST    CHRISTIAN. 

A  deed  so  rash 

Would  bring  down  shame  upon  these  silver  hairs. 
The  sun  hath  not  yet  risen. 

PATJLUS. 

Give  me  thy  sword  ! 

[Wresting  it  from  him. 

MIRIAM  (rushing  in). 

O,  stay  !     When  God  hath  barely  given  me  strength 
To  grasp  thy  robe,  must  I  behold  thy  blood 
Shed  by  thine  own  rash  hand  ?     We  deem  it  guilt ! 

PAULTJS. 

Hath  thy  God  given  thee  pinions  ?     Would,  O,  would 
That  I  had  died  before  that  weary  foot 
Had  climbed  the  hill ! 

MIRIAM. 

Indeed  that  foot  is  weary, 
And  the  frame  weak  ;  and  the  internal  striving 
Of  hope,  and  fear,  and  haste  hath  lit  no  fire 
Upon  this  cheek, —  and  I  stand  hovering 
On  the  grave's  utmost  verge.     Yet  glad,  O,  glad 
Are  the  faint  throbbings  of  this  heart ! 

PAULUS. 

How !  —  speak ! 

MIRIAM. 

Doth  not  my  soul  speak  from  my  joyous  eyes  ? 


96  MIKIAM. 

They  come  !  for  God  went  with  us,  and  his  voice 
Spake  to  the  tyrant's  heart. 

EUPHAS   (entering). 

Ay,  they  are  saved, 

And  thou,  young  heathen,  spared  for  happier  days. 
Now  haste  thee  hence  in  peace,  and  meditate 
Hereafter,  in  thy  calm  and  lonely  hours, 
Upon  this  night  of  strife  and  agony, 
And  on  the  faith  that  nerved  young  Christian  hearts, 
And  on  the  strange  success  that  crowned  their  hopes. 

PAULTJS. 

Mortals  are  ye,  —  and  more  than  mortal  power 
Hath  wrought  in  this  !     But  for  my  gods,  —  alas ! 
To  them  I  have  not  prayed  this  dreadful  night. 
O,  what  is  that  faith  worth  which  thus  forsakes 
Its  votary  in  trial's  darkest  hour  ? 
It  might  have  been  that  thou  hadst  softly  sapped 
My  youth's  belief,  —  and  so  it  proudly  stood 
Until  the  blast  came  by,  —  and  then  it  shook. 
My  gods  !     I  could  not  bear  to  think  of  them  ! 
Why  is  my  brain  so  dizzy  ? 

MIRIAM. 

Friends,  watch  still ! 

Soon  as  ye  see  our  brethren  drawing  nigh, 
The  Pagan  must  away.     Paulus,  till  then, 
Is  it  a  sin  that  dying  lips  should  breathe 
Words  that  pertain  to  earth  and  earthly  things  ? 


MIRIAM.  97 

Thy  faith  I  may  not  hope  to  shake ;  —  and  next 
Would  I  conjure  thee  never  to  forget 
The  voice,  the  face,  the  words,  the  dying  love 
Of  her  whose  warring  love  and  faith  have  dug 
Her  own  untimely  grave,  —  have  worn  away 
Her  hopes,  her  nerves,  her  life,  with  secret  waste. 
Paulus !  forget  thou  not,  in  thy  proud  halls, 
Beneath  thy  father's  smile,  in  battle-field, 
Or,  most  of  all,  in  the  dark,  solemn  hour 
When  midnight  sheds  her  spirit  on  thy  soul, 
The  words  I  've  uttered  in  those  latter  days 
Of  our  wild  love,  when  failing  hope,  dim  fear, 
And  a  vague  consciousness  that  I  must  yield, 
Must  give  thee  up  to  darkness,  came  to  add 
A  sad  and  awful  fervor  to  my  words. 
O,  it  must  work, —  it  will  !     That  memory 
Within  thy  soul  will  yet  have  mighty  power  ! 
Thou  wast  not  made  for  base  idolatry  ! 

PAULUS. 

Beloved  !  in  this  hour  of  hope  and  joy, 
Why  is  the  thought  of  death  upon  thy  soul  ? 
Why  is  thy  voice  more  sad  than  the  lone  bird's, 
Mourning  her  wounded  or  imprisoned  mate  ? 
Speak  of  thy  faith,  love,  if  thou  wilt ;  and  I 
Will  mutely  listen  still, —  although  farewell 
Hang  with  a  wild  and  melancholy  tone 
On  every  strain  ;  —  but,  O,  talk  not  of  death  ! 

9 


98  MIRIAM. 

EUPHAS. 

My  sister  !  thou  art  pale,  weary,  and  worn  ; 
And  care  hath  wrung  thy  young,  elastic  soul,  — 
Wrung  out  its  very  energies  and  hopes  ! 
But  in  a  calmer  land  we  soon  shall  find 
Repose,  the  wounded  spirit's  balm,  and  peace 
Shall  draw  sweet  music  from  thine  unstrung  mind. 
Thy  cheek  again  shall  bloom,  thine  eye  grow  bright, 
Beneath  thy  father's  mild,  approving  smiles  ; 
Thy  seraph  voice,  ere  long,  at  vesper  hour 
Shall  fearless  wake  the  hymn  or  murmured  prayer, 
In  full  communion  with  fond,  faithful  hearts  ! 
O,  bright  and  blessed  days  await  us  yet, 
Brighter  by  contrast  with  the  gloomy  past ! 
Dear  Miriam,  talk  thou  not  of  death  !  —  Alas  ! 
That  mournful  smile  ! 

MIRIAM. 

Ye  know  not,  cannot  know, 
How  surely  Death  has  set  his  mouldering  seal 
Upon  this  brow.     Must  I  not  speak  of  him  ? 
He  is  so  near  me,  that  his  shadow  falls 
Even  now  across  my  path. 

EUPHAS. 

Thou  art  deceived  ! 

It  cannot  be.     The  sickness  of  the  soul, 
Not  of  the  body,  is  upon  thee  ! 

MIRIAM. 

Brother, 


MIRIAM.  99 

Both  !     But 't  is  long  since  in  the  greater  pain 
I  have  forgot  the  less.     What  were  to  me 
The  pangs  that  racked  my  heart  and  throbbing  brain, 
The  fever  burning  in  my  veins,  the  ice 
That  suddenly,  beneath  a  noonday  sun, 
At  times  congealed  my  blood,  while  o'er  my  soul 
A  fiercer  agony  held  sway  ?     Ere  long 
I  must  depart ;  and  I  but  wait  awhile 
To  bear  my  aged  father's  blessing  hence. 
I  would  that  he  might  see  how  peacefully 
The  spirit  of  his  child  will  pass.     To  him 
That  holy  sight  will  rise,  in  after  times, 
Full,  full  of  blessed,  calm,  consoling  thoughts  ! 
PAULUS. 

0  Miriam  !  I  am  here,  —  and  soon,  thou  say'st, 

Must  hence.     Hast  thou  no  word,  no  glance,  no  thought 

For  me  ?     I  look  upon  thee  steadily, 

And  read  not  death  on  that  pale  cheek !  — Beloved  ! 

1  do  conjure  thee,  talk  of  life  and  hope, — 

For  there  is  hope,  of  which  thou  dost  not  dream, 
If  death  come  not  to  dash  the  untasted  cup 
Into  the  dust ! 

MIRIAM. 

Qf  Life  and  Hope  !     Such  themes 
Are  fittest  for  the  hour  of  death,  —  and  they 
Are  in  my  mind  when  most  I  speak  of  it. 
Euphas  !  why  dost  thou  weep  ?     The  heritage 


100  MIRIAM. 

Of  Truth  is  thine ;  thou  knowest  what  death  is, 

And  that  to  me  it  is  no  thing  of  fear. 

Thou  must  not  weep  !     But  thou,  —  alas,  my  Paulus  ! 

The  curse  to  lose  the  thing  thou  lovest  most, 

Without  one  hope,  one  comfort  in  thy  grief, 

Will  soon  be  on  thee  !     Thou  shalt  shortly  find, 

Where  hope  is  not,  't  were  better  memory 

Might  die  !     And  yet,  forget  me  not !     Although 

Thou  thinkest  never  to  behold  again 

Her  thou  didst  love,  —  in  this  world  or  the  next,  — 

Forget  me  not !     Though  long  and  proud  thy  course, 

An  hour  may  come 

FIEST    CHRISTIAN. 

The  sun  hath  risen ! 

MIRIAM. 

Just  God  ! 

EUPHAS. 

I  had  forgotten  all !  —  O  sinful  heart ! 
Look  !     Miriam,  look,  if  thou  seest  aught !     For  me, 
Mine  eyes  are  glazed  with  tears. 
MIRIAM. 

And  mine  are  dim, — 
But  not  with  tears. 

FIRST    CHRISTIAN. 

There  is  no  sign  of  life 
Along  the  river's  bank  !     The  sun 


MIRIAM.  101 

PATJLUS. 

'T  is  vain, 

Christians,  't  is  vain  !     I  knew  it  from  the  first. 
How  ye  two  'scaped  I  know  not ;  but  I  know 
This  blood  must  flow.     Ye  never  will  behold 
The  friends  whom  ye  expect. 

FIRST    CHRISTIAN. 

The  leopard  yet 

Hath  never  changed  his  spots.     Thy  sire  craves  blood, 
The  earth  craves  thine. 

MIRIAM. 
His  blood !  what  mean  thy  words  ? 

FIRST    CHRISTIAN. 

Is  not  the  sun's  whole  disk  above  the  hills  ? 
And  I  have  three  fair  boys,  whom  that  same  sun 
Will  watch  through  torments  ere  the  day  be  closed. 
The  murderer's  son  stands  there  !     Shall  I  not  strike  ? 

MIRIAM. 

Art  thou  a  follower  of  Christ  ?  —  Alas ! 
Thou  pure  and  gentle  One  !  who  walkedst  earth, 
Amid  earth's  bloodiest,  sinless,  —  from  whom 
No  shame,  no  wrong,  no  agony,  could  draw 
One  word  of  bitterness,  —  thou  hast  not  left 
Thy  spirit  in  the  hearts  of  all  who  bear 
Thy  holy  name. 

EI7PHAS. 

The  guiltless  shall  not  die. 


102  MIRIAM. 

FIRST    CHRISTIAN. 

Are  ye  Thraseno's  children  ?     Shall  your  sire 
Hang  agonizing  yonder  on  the  cross, 
And  ye  stand  here,  bending  your  tearful  eyes 
Upon  the  tyrant's  hope  and  joy  ?     Young  friends, 
For  some  dark  purpose  did  he  spare  two  lives. 
But  for  our  other  friends,  —  the  hour  is  past,  — 
They  come  not.     Ye  were  mocked,  —  and  just  revenge 
Leans  on  that  youth  and  beckons  us  !  —  My  boys  ! 
My  three  dear  boys  !  —  He  dies  ! 
MIRIAM. 

Stay,  Jew  in  heart ! 
What  is  't  emerges  from  the  grove  ? 

FIRST    CHRISTIAN. 

Ha  !  —  where  ? 

EUPHAS. 

'T  is  so.     I  see  them  plain,  —  a  feeble  band, — 
Loosed  from  the  spoiler's  grasp.     O  Thou  on  high, 
.Whose  mighty  hand  doth  hold  the  proud  man's  heart, 
Thine  be  the  praise  ! 

MIRIAM. 

Down  on  thy  knees,  rash  man  ! 
Look  on  thy  bloodless  hands,  and  render  thanks 
Where  thanks  are  due. 

FIRST    CHRISTIAN. 

I  am  condemned  ! 

And  'mid  the  joy  wherewith  I  shall  receive 
My  children  to  these  arms  will  shame  arise. 


MIRIAM.  103 

MIRIAM. 

And  penitence  be  born  of  shame.     Haste,  Paulus  ! 
Thou  must  away. 

PAULUS. 
Peace  !  —  peace  ! 

MIRIAM. 

The  hour  is  come. 

It  was  the  promise  to  thy  sire 

PAULUS. 

But,  maiden ! 

The  promise  was  not  mine.     It  binds  me  not ; 
And  of  thy  father  I  have  that  to  ask 
May  give  a  dark  mind  peace. 

EUPHAS. 

What  may  it  mean  ? 
Miriam,  see  you  the  faces  of  the  group  ? 

MIRIAM. 

O,  no  !     Whate'er  I  gaze  upon  is  robed 

In  strange  and  lurid  light.     The  grave's  dim  hues 

Are  gathering  fast  o'er  earth.  —  Art  thou  not  pale  ? 

EUPHAS. 

It  may  be.     Fear  and  doubt  are  on  my  soul. 
Paulus,  look  thou  !     Yon  troop  come  not,  methinks, 
Like  prisoners  let  loose,  like  victims  snatched 
From  agony  and  death  !     No  buoyancy 
Is  in  their  steps,  —  no  song  upon  their  lips,  — 
No  triumph  on  their  brows  !     They  pause  !  —  now  closer 
They  draw  their  feeble  ranks  ! 


101  MIRIAM. 

PAULUS. 

Grief  and  dismay 
Are  with  that  group. 

EUPHAS. 

O  God !     I  see  him  not ! 
My  father  is  not  there  ! 

MIRIAM. 

Nay,  Euphas,  stay  ! 

Kneel  humbly  here  with  me,  and  pray  for  strength. 
Wilt  thou  forsake  me  in  an  hour  like  this  ?  [J  pause. 

FIRST    CHRISTIAN. 

They  come ! 

Raise,  —  raise  your  drooping  heads  ! 
EUPHAS. 

I  dare  not  look. 

(CHRISTIANS  enter,  and  the  group,  opening,  displays  the  body  of  THRA- 
SENO  on  a  bier.) 

PAULUS  (springing  forward). 

0  foul  and  bloody  deed  !  —  and  wretched  son, 
That  knows  too  well  whose  treachery  hath  done  this  ! 

AN    AGED    CHRISTIAN. 

Thus  saith  the  man  of  blood  :  —  "  My  word  is  kept. 

1  send  you  him  I  promised.     Have  ye  kept 
Your  faith  with  me  ?     If  so,  there  is  naught  more 
Between  us  three.     Bury  your  dead,  —  and  fly  !  " 

FIRST    CHRISTIAN. 

A  ruffian's  strangling  hand  hath  grasped  this  throat, 
And  on  the  purple  lip  convulsion  still 


MIRIAM.  105 

Lingers,  with  awful  tale  of  violence  ! 
O,  fearful  was  the  strife  from  which  arose 
Our  brother's  spirit  to  its  peaceful  home  ! 
Let  grief,  let  wrath,  let  each  unquiet  thought, 
Be  still,  and  round  the  just  man's  dust  ascend 
The  voice  of  prayer. 

PATJLTTS. 

Not  yet !  O,  not  quite  yet ! 
Hear  me,  ye  pale  and  horror-stricken  throng  ! 
Hear  me,  thou  sobbing  boy  !     My  Miriam,  turn,  — 
Turn  back  thy  face  from  the  dim  world  of  death, 
And  hear  thy  lover's  voice !  —  What  seest  thou 
In  the  blue  heavens,  with  fixed  and  eager  gaze  ? 

MIRIAM. 

Angels  are  gathering  in  the  eastern  sky,  — 
The  wind  is  playing  'mid  their  glittering  plumes,  — 
The  sunbeams  dance  upon  their  golden  harps, — 
Welcome  is  on  their  fair  and  glorious  brows  ! 
Hath  not  a  holy  spirit  passed  from  earth, 
Whom  ye  come  forth  to  meet,  seraphic  forms  ? 
O,  fade  not,  fade  not  yet !  — or  take  me  too, 
For  earth  grows  dark  beneath  my  dazzled  eye  ! 

PATJLUS. 

Miriam  !  in  mercy  spread  not  yet  thy  wings  ! 
Spurn  me  not  from  the  gate  that  opes  for  thee ! 

MIRIAM. 

In  which  world  do  I  stand  ?     A  voice  there  was 


106  MIRIAM. 

Of  prayer  and  woe.      That  must  have  rung  on  earth  ! 
Say  on. 

PAULITS. 

Christians  !  I  must  indeed  say  on, 
Or  my  full  heart  will  break  !  —  No  heathen  is  't 
On  whom  ye  gaze  with  lowering,  angry  eyes. 
My  father's  blood,  —  his  name,  his  faith,  his  gods,  — 
I  here  abjure  ;  and  only  ask  your  prayers, 
The  purifying  water  on  my  brow, 
And  words  of  hope  to  soothe  my  penitence, 
Ere  I  atone  my  father's  crimes  with  blood.  [Silence. 

And  will  none  speak  ?     Am  I  indeed  cast  off,  — 
Rejected  utterly  ?     Will  no  one  teach 
The  sinner  how  to  frame  the  Christian's  prayer, 
Help  me  to  know  the  Christian's  God  aright, 
Wash  from  my  brow  the  deep  red  stains  of  guilt  ? 
Must  I  then  die  in  ignorance  and  sin  ? 

MIRIAM. 

O  earth  !  be  not  so  busy  with  my  soul  ! 
Paulus  !  what  wouldest  thou  ? 

PATTLTTS. 

The  rite  that  binds 
New  converts  to  your  peaceful  faith. 
MIRIAM. 

Good  brethren, 

Hear  ye  his  prayer  !     Search  ye  the  penitent, 
Bear  him  forth  with  you  in  your  pilgrimage, 


MIRIAM.  107 

And  when  his  soul  in  earnest  hath  drunk  in 

The  spirit  of  Christ's  law,  seal  him  for  heaven  !  — 

And  now,  —  would  that  my  chains  were  broke  !    Half  freed, 

My  spirit  struggles  'neath  the  dust  that  lies 

So  heavy  on  her  wings  !  —  Paulus,  we  part. 

But,  O,  how  different  is  the  parting  hour 

From  that  which  crushed  my  hopeless  spirit  erst ! 

Joy,  —  joy  and  triumph  now 

PAULUS. 

O,  name  not  joy  ! 

MIRIAM. 

Why  not  ?     If  but  one  ray  of  light  from  Heaven 
Hath  reached  thy  soul,  I  may  indeed  rejoice  ! 
Even  thus,  in  coming  days,  from  martyrs'  blood 
Shall  earnest  saints  arise  to  do  God's  work. 
And  thus  with  slow,  sure,  silent  step  shall  Truth 
Tread  the  dark  earth,  and  scatter  Light  abroad, 
Till  Peace  and  Righteousness  awake,  and  lead 
Triumphant,  in  the  bright  and  joyous  blaze, 
Their  happy  myriads  up  to  yonder  skies  ! 

EUPHAS. 

Sister !  with  such  a  calm  and  sunny  brow 
Stand'st  thou  beside  our  murdered  father's  bier  ? 

MIRIAM. 

Euphas,  thy  hand  !  —  Ay,  clasp  thy  brother's  hand ! 
Ye  fair  and  young  apostles  !  go  ye  forth,  — 
Go  side  by  side  beneath  the  sun  and  storm, 


108  MIRIAM. 

A  dying  sister's  blessing  on  your  toils ! 

When  ye  have  poured  the  oil  of  Christian  peace 

On  passions  rude  and  wild,  —  when  ye  have  won 

Dark,  sullen  souls  from  wrath  and  sin  to  God,  — 

Whene'er  ye  kneel  to  bear  upon  your  prayers 

Repentant  sinners  up  to  yonder  heaven, 

Be  it  in  palace,  — dungeon,  —  open  air,  — 

'Mid  friends,  —  'mid  raging  foes,  —  in  joy,  —  in  grief,  — 

Deem  not  ye  pray  alone  ;  —  man  never  doth  ! 

A  sister  spirit,  lingering  near,  shall  fill 

The  silent  air  around  you  with  her  prayers, 

Waiting  till  ye  too  lay  your  fetters  down, 

And  come  to  your  reward !  —  Go  fearless  forth  ; 

For  glorious  truth  wars  with  you,  and  shall  reign. 

[Seeing  the  bier. 

My  father  !  sleepest  thou  ?  —  Ay,  a  sound  sleep. 
Dreams  have  been  there, —  O,  horrid  dreams  !  —  but  now 
The  silver  beard  heaves  not  upon  thy  breast, 
The  hand  I  press  is  deadly,  deadly  cold, 
And  thou  wilt  dream,  wilt  never  suffer,  more. 
Why  gaze  I  on  this  clay  ?     It  was  not  this,  — 

Not  this  I  reverenced  and  loved  ! 

My  friends, 

Raise  ye  the  dirge  ;  and  though  I  hide  my  face 
In  my  dead  father's  robe,  think  not  I  weep. 
I  would  not  have  the  sight  of  those  I  love 
Too  well  —  even  at  this  solemn  hour  too  well  — 


MIRIAM.  109 


Disturb  my  soul's  communion  with  the  blest ! 
My  brother,  sob  not  so  ! 

DIKGE. 

Shed  not  the  wild  and  hopeless  tear 
Upon  our  parted  brother's  bier  ; 
With  heart  subdued  and  steadfast  eye, 
O,  raise  each  thought  to  yonder  sky  ! 

Aching  brow  and  throbbing  breast 
In  the  silent  grave  shall  rest ; 
But  the  clinging  dust  in  vain 
Weaves  around  the  soul  its  chain. 

Spirit,  quit  this  land  of  tears, 
Hear  the  song  of  rolling  spheres  ; 
Shall  our  wild  and  selfish  prayers 
Call  thee  back  to  mortal  cares  ? 

Sainted  spirit !  fare  thee  well ! 
More  than  mortal  tongue  can  tell 
Is  the  joy  that  even  now 
Crowns  our  blessed  martyr's  brow  ! 

EUPHAS. 

Paul  us,  arise  ! 

We  must  away.     Thy  father's  wrath 

10 


110  MIRIAM. 

PATJLUS. 

O,  peace ! 
My  Miriam,  speak  to  us  !  —  She  doth  not  stir  ! 

ETTPHAS. 
Methought  I  saw  her  ringlets  move  ! 

FIRST    CHRISTIAN. 

Alas ! 

'T  was  but  the  breeze  that  lifted  those  dark  locks  ! 
They  never  will  wave  more  ! 

EUPHAS. 

It  cannot  be ! 

Let  me  but  look  upon  her  face  !  —  O  God  ! 
Death  sits  in  that  glazed  eye  ! 

FIRST    CHRISTIAN. 

Ay,  while  we  sung 

Her  father's  dirge,  across  the  young  and  fair 
I  saw  death's  shudder  pass.     Nay,  turn  not  pale. 
Borne  on  the  solemn  strain,  her  spirit  soared 

Most  peacefully  on  high.  

Chastened  ye  are, 

And  bound  by  sorrow  to  your  holy  task. 
Arise,  —  and  in  your  youthful  memories 
Treasure  the  end  of  innocence.  —  Away, 
Beneath  far  other  skies,  weep,  if  ye  can, 
The  gain  of  those  ye  loved. 

EUPHAS. 

Lift  this  fair  dust.  — 


MIRIAM.  Ill 

My  brother  !  speechless,  tearless  grief  for  her 
Who  listeneth  for  thy  prayers  ? 

PAULUS. 

My  mind  is  dark. 

The  faith  which  she  bequeathed  must  lighten  it. 
Come  forth,  and  I  will  learn.  —  O  Miriam  ! 
Can  thy  bright  faith  e'er  comfort  grief  like  mine  ? 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


10* 


A    DRAMATIC    FRAGMENT. 


CHARACTERS. 

KING  HENRY  THE  SEVENTH. 

LA.DY  CATHERINE,  the  wife  of  Perkin  Warbeck. 

CLARA,  her  attendant. 

SIR  FLORIAN,  a  friend  of  Perkin  Warbeck. 

SCENE. — A  castle  on  the  sea-coast,  in  Cornwall. 
TIME.  —  The  autumn  of  the  year  1499. 


LADY  CATHERINE  and  CLARA. 
LADY    CATHERINE. 

OPEN  that  casement  toward  the  sea,  my  Clara. 
I  gaze  in  vain  along  the  hilly  waste, 
Watching  the  lone  and  solitary  road 
Until  mine  eyes  are  strained.     The  dull  day  wanes, 
The  sad  November  day,  —  and  yet  there  come 
No  tidings  from  my  lord  !     Ay  !  that  is  well  ! 
Sit  thou  where  I  have  sat  these  many  hours 
In  patience  sorrowful ;  and  summon  me 


116  A   DKAMATIC   FRAGMENT. 

With  a  most  joyous  cry,  if  thy  kind  watch 
Be  more  successful.     Sea  !  for  ever  tossing  ! 
Thy  very  motion  is  so  beautiful, 
So  wild  and  spirit-stirring,  as  I  turn 
From  the  bleak,  changeless  moor,  all  desolate, 
I  bless  each  wave  that  breaks  against  yon  cliff. 
O  mighty  ocean  !  thou  art  free,  —  art  free  ! 
Dash  high,  thou  foamy-crested  billow,  high  ! 
That  was  a  leap,  which  sent  the  snowy  spray 
Up  to  yon  o'erhanging  crag,  and  forth 
The  screaming  sea-bird  sprang  rejoicingly. 
Clara,  do  not  forget  thy  watch. 

CLARA. 

Nay,  lady, 

Return  not  yet ;  thou  shalt  have  warning  swift, 
If  but  a  lonely  traveller  tread  the  heath. 

LADY    CATHERINE. 

Yes  !     I  will  trust  thee,  and  again  look  forth 

Upon  the  glorious  sea.     In  my  youth's  prime 

Is  it  not  strange  I  thus  should  love  to  gaze 

On  a  wild  ocean-view  and  frowning  sky  ? 

O  sorrow  !  fear  !  and  dark  suspense  !  what  change 

Ye  work  in  brief,  brief  space  on  careless  hearts  ! 

Methinks  it  was  not  many  months  ago 

Childhood  was  round  me  with  its  rainbow  dreams ; 

Then  came  the  glittering  vision  of  a  court, 

Dear  Scotland's  court,  where  on  my  bridal  hour 


A   DRAMATIC   FRAGMENT.  117 

A  gracious  monarch  smiled,  and  silently 

Time  stole  the  wings  of  love.     My  husband  !  dearest ! 

Our  happy  hours  were  few.     The  echoes  still 

Rang  back  the  harp's  sweet  nuptial  melody, 

When  came  a  fearful  voice,  —  I  scarce  knew  whence,  — 

But  terrible,  O,  terrible  it  was  ! 

The  dew  scarce  dry  upon  the  snowy  rose 

I  wore  that  morn,  when  it  was  wet  afresh 

With  tears  of  parting  !     'T  was  but  for  a  time, 

He  said,  and  we  should  meet  again.     My  heart 

Clings  to  the  promise  sweet, —  "  We  meet  again  "  ; 

But  when,  O,  when  ?     Ye  vain  remembrances, 

Depart  !     Let  me  survey  the  heath  once  more. 

The  ocean  breeze  has  fanned  the  pain  away 

From  my  hot  brow,  and  now  it  wearies  me 

To  look  upon  those  restless  waves.     Their  roar 

Comes  faintly  up  from  yonder  wet,  black  rocks, 

Monotonous  and  hoarse  ;  the  mighty  clouds 

Sweep  endless  o'er  the  heavens  ;  I  am  sad, 

And  all  things  sadden  me.     They  '11  set  him  free  ! 

They  surely  will,  my  Clara  !     Thou  hast  said  it 

Full  twenty  times  this  day,  and  yet  again 

I  fain  would  hear  such  empty  words  of  cheer. 

What  is  yon  speck  upon  the  dusky  heath  ? 

Look  !  —  look  ! 

CLARA. 

I  have  been  watching  it,  dear  lady. 


118  A   DRAMATIC   FRAGMENT. 

'T  is  but  a  lonely  tree. 

LADY    CATHERINE. 

No,  no,  it  moves  ! 

My  heart's  solicitude  doth  give  me  sight 
Keener  than  thine  ;  —  it  moves  ;  —  it  comes  this  way. 
What  may  its  form  and  bearing  be  ?     It  nears 
Yon  pile  of  rocks.     Clara,  such  speed  denotes 
A  horseman  fleet !     Peace,  heart !  throb  not  so  fast. 

CLARA. 

The  gray  mist  settles  down  and  mocks  thine  eye. 
It  is  a  peasant,  toiling  through  the  furze. 

LADY    CATHERINE. 

Nay  !  't  is  a  mounted  knight !     Yon  hillock  passed, 
Thou  wilt  descry  him  plain. 

CLARA. 

'T  is  so  !  he  rides, 

He  rides  for  life  !     Is  't  not  the  jet  black  steed 
Sir  Florian  mounts  ? 

LADY    CATHERINE. 

It  is  my  husband's  friend  ! 
'T  is  he  that  rushes  on  with  such  mad  haste. 
Tidings  at  last !  —  O  Clara,  I  am  faint ! 

CLARA. 

Be  calm,  my  much-tried  mistress  ;  joy  still  comes 
Close  upon  apprehension. 

LADY    CATHERINE. 

Is  it  so  ? 


A   DRAMATIC   FRAGMENT.  119 

I  cannot  tell.     Would  bad  news  spur  him  thus  ? 

CLARA. 

Believe  me,  no.     Be  calm. 

LADY   CATHERINE. 

I  Will,  — I  Will. 

Is  he  not  here  ?  he  's  wondrous  slow,  methinks. 

CLARA. 

The  noble  charger  's  spent ;  his  smoking  sides 
Are  flecked  with  foam,  and  every  gallant  leap 
Seems  as  't  would  be  his  last.     Why  doth  his  rider 
Cast  back  such  troubled  glances  o'er  the  moor  ? 
Now  to  the  ground  he  springs  !  the  brave  steed  drops  ! 
Lady,  look  up  !  Sir  Florian  is  at  hand. 
Enter  FLORIAN. 
FLORIAN. 

Where  is  the  Lady  Catherine  !     O,  away  ! 
Fly  for  your  life  ! 

LADY    CATHERINE. 

Fly  ?  and  from  whom  ?  or  why  ? 

SIR    FLORIAN. 

Question  me  not ;  I  do  conjure  you,  fly. 
The  danger  's  imminent ;  —  moments  are  precious. 
Down  to  the  beach  ;  —  take  boat  without  delay. 
It  is  your  husband's  bidding. 

LADY    CATHERINE. 

O,  thank  Heaven 
For  those  two  words  !     Am  I  to  meet  him,  then  ? 


120  A  DRAMATIC   FRAGMENT. 

SIR    FLORIAN. 

No,  lady,  no  !  but  I  have  been  delayed, 
Crossed,  intercepted,  and  wellnigh  cut  off, 
Till  on  a  moment's  grace  your  life  depends. 
The  king  pursues. 

LADY    CATHERINE. 

The  king  !  in  mercy  say, 
Where  is  my  husband  ? 

SIR    FLORIAN. 

London  Tower  held  still 

The  princely  wanderer,  when  the  rumor  came 
That  Henry's  wrath  burnt  hot  'gainst  thee,  sweet  lady  ! 
And  that  the  place  of  thy  retreat  was  known. 
Fly  !  't  is  thy  husband's  word. 

LADY    CATHERINE. 

Imprisoned  still ! 

Take  me  to  London,  noble  Florian.     Nay, 
How  can  I  live  but  in  that  same  dark  Tower, 
Where  they  have  pinioned  down  my  gallant  lord,  — 
My  noble,  much-wronged  lord  ?     Not  yet  set  free  ! 
He  hath  been  pardoned  once,  if  men  told  true  ! 

SIR    FLORIAN. 

Come,  fair  and  most  unhappy  ! 

LADY   CATHERINE. 

I  have  heard 

Such  fearful  tales  of  bloody  murders  done 
In  the  mysterious  circuit  of  those  walls  ! 


A   DRAMATIC   FRAGMENT.  121 

What,  didst  thou  leave  him  well  ? 

SIR    FLORIAN. 

In  truth  I  did, 

Though  somewhat  wan  and  wasted  ;  anxious,  too, 
For  thy  most  precious  life.     Come,  I  conjure  thee  ! 

CLARA. 

There  is  a  strange  and  hollow  sound  abroad ! 
'T  is  not  the  sea  ! 

SIR    FLORIAN. 

No,  nor  the  sweeping  wind. 
It  is  the  tramp  of  steeds  fast  galloping  ! 

CLARA. 

They  come  !  like  mounted  giants  looming  now 
Through  the  dim  mist. 

SIR    FLORIAN. 

She  's  lost !     Why  lingered  I  ? 

CLARA. 

Quick  !  there  is  time  ;  —  our  startled  menials  now 
Bar  fast  the  outer  doors  ;  —  yon  staircase  leads 
Down  through  a  vaulted  passage  to  the  shore. 
Still  motionless,  sweet  mistress  ? 

LADY    CATHERINE. 

Was  he  worn 

And  pale,  saidst  thou  ?     Truly  I  do  rejoice 
The  king  draws  nigh,  for  on  my  bended  knees 
Will  I  entreat  to  share  my  husband's  cell. 
11 


122  A   DRAMATIC   FRAGMENT. 

CLARA. 

She  is  distraught ! 

SIR    FLORIAN. 

Most  gracious  lady,  list ! 
It  is  your  blood  this  haughty  monarch  seeks, 
And  with  a  vow  against  the  innocent 
His  soul  is  burdened ;  do  not  wildly  dream 
That  he  will  pity  thee.     And  for  thy  lord 

LADY    CATHERINE. 

Pause  not !     I  do  conjure  thee,  speak  ! 

SIR    FLORIAN. 

He  hath  been  tried,  condemned 

LADY    CATHERINE. 

And  slain  ? 

CLARA. 

That  shriek 
Doth  guide  them  hither. 

SIR   FLORIAN. 

Nay,  he  lives  as  yet, 
But  vainly 

LADY   CATHERINE. 

O,  God  bless  thee  for  that  word  ! 
He  lives  !     Monarch  of  England,  come  ! 
CLARA. 

Hark,  hark  ! 
That  crash,  —  the  doors  are  burst ! 


A   DRAMATIC   FRAGMENT.  123 

SIR    FLOR1AN. 

Her  doom  is  sealed  ! 
Enter  KING  HENRY  and  attendants. 
KING    HENRY. 

We  are  in  time  ;  —  the  bird  hath  not  escaped. 
Those  hoof-tracks  made  me  fear,  some  traitor  fleet 
Had  warned  her  from  the  nest.     Ha !  frowning  youth  ! 
Whence  comest  thou  ?     AVhat  may  thine  errand  be, 
That  brought  thee  hither  in  such  furious  haste  ? 

SIR    FLORIAN. 

Thou  well  mightst  guess ;  't  was  from  thy  bloody  fangs 
I  vainly  hoped  one  victim  to  withdraw. 
She  chose  to  trust  thy  clemency,  —  alas ! 

KING    HENRY. 

Alas,  indeed !  bold  heart  is  thine,  and  tongue 
As  bold.     But  garb  so  travel-stained,  fair  Sir, 
Fits  not  a  lady's  bower  ;  and  thou  'It  not  love, 
Perchance,  to  fix  that  pity-beaming  eye 
Upon  my  deeds  of  clemency.     Take  hence 
This  youthful  rebel,  and  let  manacles 
Bind  those  officious  hands. 

[Exit  SIR  FLORIAN  with  two  officers. 
*'  Now  for  our  work. 

We  will  survey  this  far-famed  Scottish  lily, 
Ere  the  sharp  steel  do  crop  its  drooping  head. 
Indeed  she  's  wondrous  fair  !     Hast  thou  no  voice, 
Pale  suppliant  ?     Its  music  must  be  rich, 


124  A   DRAMATIC    FRAGMENT. 

And  e'en  more  eloquent  than  those  clasped  hands, 
That  sweet,  imploring  face.     Speak,  for  thy  moments 
Flit  into  nothingness,  and  if  thou  hast 
One  last  petition  for  thy  dying  hour 

LADY   CATHERINE. 

My  husband,  gracious  king  ! 

KING    HENRY. 

What,  art  thou  mad  ? 

LADY    CATHERINE. 

Let  me  but  see  his  face  !    O,  drag  me  hence 
With  scorn  and  violence  to  share  his  doom, 
And  I  will  bless  thy  name. 

KING   HENRY. 

She  hath  gone  wild 

With  sudden  terror.     He  's  condemned,  sweet  lady, 
To  die  a  shameful  death,  and  thou  this  hour  — 
This  very  hour  —  must  perish  in  thy  youth. 
So  bids  my  needful  policy.     Thinkest  thou 
Of  aught  but  precious  life,  with  such  a  fate 
Darkening  around  thee,  fair  one  ?     Now,  ask  aught 
But  life 

LADY    CATHERINE. 

Life, — life  !  mere  breath  !  and  what  is  that  ? 
Take  it,  my  sovereign  !     He  who  gave  it  me 
Will  call  my  spirit  home  to  heaven  and  peace 
When  this  poor  dust  lies  low.     I  have  no  prayer 
To  offer  for  my  wretched  life,  if  joy 


A   DRAMATIC    FRAGMENT.  125 

Lie  dead  and  buried  in  my  husband's  grave. 
Is  there  no  mercy  for  my  gallant  lord  ? 
Crowned  monarch,  speak  !  what  can  thy  mightiness 
Grant  thee  beyond  the  holy  power  to  bless  ? 

KING    HENRY. 

I  must  be  stern  in  words  as  well  as  deeds. 
I  charge  thee,  if  thou  hast  a  last  request,  — 
A  dying  message  to  the  noble  house 
Whence  thou  art  sprung 

LADY    CATHERINE. 

My  home  !  —  forsaken  home  ! 
It  was  for  him  I  left  the  heathy  hills 
Of  my  own  Scotland  ;  there  we  had  not  perished 
Thus  in  life's  early  bloom.     May  blessings  rest 
On  the  old  quiet  castle,  and  each  head 
Its  gray  roof  shelters  !     How  those  ancient  halls 
Will  ring  a  wild  lament,  when  comes  the  tale 
That  England's  broken  faith  hath  widowed  me, 
And  laid  me,  all  unmourned,  in  English  dust ! 
Thy  fame,  proud  king,  thy  fame  ! 

KING    HENRY. 

Ha  !  dost  thou  dare 

Breathe  such  reproach  ?     Hear,  then,  unthinking  girl, 
Since  thou  dost  stir  my  wrath  !     Dost  thou  not  know, 
Daughter  of  Gordon's  stainless  house,  that  thou 
Art  to  a  mean  and  base  impostor  linked  ? 
Duped  and  beguiled  by  crafty  words,  thy  king 
11* 


126  A  DRAMATIC   FRAGMENT. 

Gave  with  his  own  pledged  faith  thy  maiden  hand 
To  Margaret's  low-born  tool ;  —  and  he  hath  lied, 
Lied  his  own  life  away,  and  stained  his  soul 
With  foulest  perjury,  to  steal  the  crown 
Of  glorious  England  from  her  lawful  king. 
The  fraud  is  plain  ;  —  the  forfeit,  his  mean  life  ;  — 
And  men  with  eyes  amazed  shrink  back  from  him 
They  followed  in  a  dream.     Awake  thou,  too ; 
Die  not  in  thy  delusion. 

LADY   CATHERINE. 

Now  be  still, 

My  swelling  heart !     Speak  calmly,  quivering  lips ! 
Man  !  — I  will  call  thee  monarch  now  no  more, 
While  ring  thy  words  of  insult  in  mine  ear,  — 
Thou  dost  defame  the  husband  I  adore, 
And,  in  mine  hour  of  fear  and  agony, 
With  cruel  calumnies  dost  strive  to  rend 
The  one  true  heart  that  loves  him  yet.     Enough  ! 
Unkingly  words  were  thine  ;  —  but  I  depart 
Where  earthly  slanders  cannot  reach  mine  ear. 
Give  orders  ;  —  let  me  die. 

KING    HENRY. 

Nay,  it  is  past ;  — 
It  was  a  flash  of  momentary  heat, 
For  of  a  fiery  race  I  came.     Alas !  I  mourn 
That  in  cold  blood,  fair  lady,  I  must  doom 
A  creature  young  and  innocent  as  thou 


A   DRAMATIC   FRAGMENT.  127 

f 

To  an  untimely  grave.     And,  if  I  gaze 

Longer  upon  that  brow  ingenuous, 

My  purposes  will  surely  melt.     Farewell ! 

LADY    CATHERINE. 

Stay,  —  stay  !  hear  but  a  few  brief  words,  my  king  ! 

Not  for  myself  I  plead,  not  of  my  life, 

My  worthless  life,  would  speak;  —  but  fame,  Ms  fame, 

Dearer  than  kingdoms  to  his  noble  heart, 

Claims  of  his  wife  one  burst  of  warm  defence. 

If  royal  blood  flow  not  within  the  veins 

Of  him  I  loved  and  wedded,  that  deceit 

Was  never  his  !     The  artful  may  have  played 

Upon  his  open  nature,  and  have  lured 

Their  victim  to  the  toils  for  purposes 

They  dared  not  own  ;  —  and  now  they  may  forsake,  — 

O  God  of  heaven  !  I  never  will  desert 

My  mocked  and  much-wronged  husband,  though  false  men 

Shrink  from  him  as  a  serpent.     I  may  die 

A  bloody  death,  but,  with  my  last,  last  breath, 

Will  still  avow  my  trusting  love,  and  sue 

For  rnercy  on  his  innocence. 

KING    HENRY. 

Now,  lady 

LADY    CATHERINE. 

O,  peace  !  —  unless  I  read  thy  restless  eye  aright. 
Wilt  thou  not  look  on  me  ? 

(Casting  herself  at  his  feet.') 

Doth  thy  heart  swell 


128  A   DRAMATIC   FRAGMENT. 

• 

With  an  unwonted  fulness  ?     Ha !  the  vest 

Heaves  glittering  on  thy  breast  !  thou  then  art  moved, — 

And,  if  tears  choke  me  not,  I  will  dare  plead 

Even  for  him,  —  him  whom  I  may  not  name. 

KING    HENRY. 

Loosen  my  robe  ;  —  away,  —  I  will  not  hear  ! 

LADY    CATHERINE. 

Thou  must, — thou  wilt ;  —  though  slanderous  tongues  do  say 

Thy  heart  is  steel,  I  will  believe  it  not, 

While  on  that  gracious  face  I  gaze.     Thou  'It  hear  me. 

His  trust  in  flattering  tongues  for  ever  cured, 

His  wild  hopes  mocked,  his  young  ambition  quenched, 

His  wisdom  ripened  by  adversity, 

Forth  from  his  prison  will  my  husband  come, 

A  subject  true  and  faithful  to  thy  sway. 

And  I  will  lead  him  far  away  from  courts, 

Into  the  heart  of  lonely  Scottish  hills  ; 

There  by  some  quiet  lake  his  home  shall  be, 

So  still  and  happy,  that  his  stormy  youth, 

With  all  its  perilous  follies,  will  but  seem 

As  a  dim  memory  of  some  former  state, 

In  some  forgotten  world.     He  shall  grow  old 

Ruling  my  simple  vassals  with  such  power 

As  a  brave  hand  and  gentle  heart  may  use  ; 

And  never,  never  ask  again,  what  blood 

Flows  in  his  veins  ;  nor  dream  one  idle  dream 

Of  courtiers,  palaces,  and  sparkling  crowns, 


A   DRAMATIC   FRAGMENT.  129 

While  these  fond  lips  can  whisper  winning  words, 
And  woman's  ever-busy  love  can  weave 
Ties  strong,  but  viewless,  round  his  manly  heart. 
Thou  'It  hear  it  not,  but  in  that  blessed  home 
How  will  I  murmur  in  my  nightly  prayers 
The  name  of  England's  king  ! 

He  's  free  !  —  he  's  pardoned  ! 
That  tearful  smile  all  graciously  declares 
I  am  not  widowed  in  my  wretched  youth  ! 
I  shall  behold  his  noble  face  again. 
God  bless  thee,  generous  prince  !  and  give  thee  power, 
Through  long,  long  years,  to  bind  up  bleeding  hearts, 
And  use  thy  sceptre  as  a  wand  of  peace  ! 
My  tears,  —  they  flowed  not  when  I  prayed,  —  but  now 
The  grateful  gush  declares,  when  language  fails, 
The  ecstasy  of  joy ! 

(Enter  a  messenger,  who  presents  a  packet  to  the  king.     He  breaks  it 
open,  and,  after  casting  his  eye  over  it,  turns  away  abruptly.) 

CLARA. 

The  king  is  troubled  ! 

KING   HENRY  (after  a  pause) . 

My  sweet  petitioner,  look  up  ! 

LADY    CATHERINE. 

Alas! 
I  dare  not. 

KING    HENRY. 

Nay,  why  now  such  sudden  fear  ? 


130  A  DRAMATIC  FRAGMENT. 

What  sawest  thou  mirrored  in  my  face  ? 

LADY    CATHERINE. 

A  nameless  terror  robs  me  of  all  strength. 

That  packet !  —  O,  these  quick  and  dread  forebodings  ! 

Speak  !  it  were  mercy,  should  thine  accents  kill ! 

KING    HENRY. 

Thou  hast  a  noble  spirit ;  —  rouse  it  now, 
Daughter  of  Gordon ! 

LADY   CATHERINE. 

King  !  say  on,  —  say  all ! 

KING    HENRY. 

Art  thou  prepared  ? 

LADY   CATHERINE. 

What  matters  it  ?     Speak,  —  speak  ! 
Prepared  !  what,  with  this  dizzy,  whirling  brain  ? 
Comes  fortitude  amid  such  fierce  suspense  ? 
Tell  me  the  worst,  —  and  show  thy  pity  so. 

KING    HENRY. 

Blanched,  —  gasping,  —  but  angelic  still !     What  words 
Can  sheathe  the  piercing  news  ?     Thy  suit 
Was  all  too  late,  true  wife  !     He  is  in  heaven. 

[LADY  CATHERINE  faints. 

"  Pale  rose  of  England  !  "  men  have  named  thee  well. 
What  brought  me  hither  ?     What  ?     To  murder  thee  ? 
O,  purpose  horrible  !     I  cannot  think 
This  bosom  ever  harboured  scheme  so  fierce. 
Dark,  bloody  policy  !  it  is  dissolved 


A  DRAMATIC   FRAGMENT.  131 

Beneath  the  gentle  light  of  innocence, 

Melted  by  woman's  true  and  faithful  love, 

Conquered  by  grief  it  is  not  mine  to  heal. 

The  dead  may  not  return,  —  but  she  may  live  ! 

Quit  not  the  broken-hearted,  weeping  maid  ! 

She  hath  been  true  till  death.     And  I  will  give 

Shelter  to  sorrow  such  as  these  stern  eyes 

Ne'er  saw  till  now.     To  my  own  gentle  queen 

Will  I  consign  the  victim  of  harsh  times. 

Thou  shouldst  have  bloomed  in  sunshine,  blighted  rose  ! 

And  ne'er  have  been  transplanted  from  thy  bower 

To  waste  such  fragrant  virtues  'mid  the  storm. 


NOTE. 

In  the  reign  of  Henry  the  Seventh  of  England,  a  pretender  to  the 
crown  appeared,  in  the  person  of  Perkin  Warbeck,  a  youth  who  de 
clared  himself  to  be  Richard,  Duke  of  York,  second  son  of  Edward 
the  Fourth.  He  was  supported  by  Margaret  of  York,  the  Duke  of 
Burgundy,  and  other  powerful  friends ;  and  the  young  king  of  Scot 
land  went  so  far  as  to  bestow  on  him  the  hand  of  the  Lady  Catherine 
Gordon,  nearly  allied  to  the  royal  family,  and  celebrated  for  her  beauty. 
She  remained  fondly  attached  to  him  through  his  reverses,  when  all 
England  had  forsaken  him  ;  and  it  is  said  that  the  cold  heart  of  Hen 
ry  was  so  softened  by  her  loveliness,  constancy,  and  sorrow  for  her 
husband,  that  he  relented  in  his  bloody  purpose,  and,  instead  of  tak 
ing  her  life,  as  he  had  intended,  placed  her  honorably  in  his  queen's 
household.  Warbeck  had  adopted  the  title  of  the  "  Pale  Rose  of  Eng 
land";  but  the  people  transferred  it  to  her.  See  Mackintosh's  History 
of  England,  Phil,  ed.,  p.  197. 


TO   MY   MOTHER'S   MEMORY. 


Mr  mother!  weary  years  have  passed,  since  last 
I  met  thy  gentle  smile  ;  and  sadly  then 
It  fell  upon  my  young  and  joyous  heart. 
There  was  a  mortal  paleness  on  thy  cheek, 
And  well  I  knew  they  bore  thee  far  away 
With  a  vain  hope  to  mend  the  broken  springs,  — 
The  springs  of  life.     And  bitter  tears  I  shed 
In  childhood's  short-lived  agony  of  grief, 
When  soothing  voices  said  that  thou  wert  gone, 
And  that  I  must  not  weep,  for  thou  wert  blest. 
Full  many  a  flower  has  bloomed  upon  thy  grave, 
And  many  a  winter's  snow  has  melted  there  ; 
Childhood  has  passed,  and  youth  is  passing  now, 
And  scatters  paler  roses  on  my  path  ; 
Dim  and  more  dim  my  fancy  paints  thy  form, 
Thy  mild  blue  eye,  thy  cheek  so  thin  and  fair, 
Touched,  when  I  saw  thee  last,  with  hectic  flush, 
Telling,  in  solemn  beauty,  of  the  grave. 
Mine  ear  hath  lost  the  accents  of  thy  voice, 


TO  MY  MOTHER'S  MEMORY.  133 

And  faintly  o'er  my  memory  comes  at  times 
A  glimpse  of  joys  that  had  their  source  in  thee, 
Like  one  brief  strain  of  some  forgotten  song. 
And  then  at  times  a  blessed  dream  comes  down, 
Missioned,  perhaps,  by  thee  from  brighter  realms, 
And,  wearing  all  the  semblance  of  thy  form, 
Gives  to  my  heart  the  joy  of  days  gone  by. 
With  gushing  tears  I  wake.     O,  art  thou  not 
Unseen  and  bodiless  around  my  path, 
Watching  with  brooding  love  about  thy  child  ? 
Is  it  not  so,  my  mother  ?    I  will  not 
Think  it  a  fancy,  wild,  and  vain,  and  false, 
That  spirits  good  and  pure  as  thine  descend, 
Like  guardian  angels  round  the  few  they  loved, 
Oft  intercepting  coming  woes,  and  still 
Joying  on  every  beam  that  gilds  our  paths, 
And  waving  snowy  pinions  o'er  our  heads 
When  midnight  slumbers  close  our  aching  eyes. 


1821. 


12 


OMNIPRESENCE. 


THERE  is  an  unseen  Power  around, 

Existing  in  the  silent  air  ; 
Where  treadeth  man,  where  space  is  found, 

Unheard,  unknown,  that  Power  is  there. 

And  not  when  bright  and  busy  day 
Is  round  us  with  its  crowds  and  cares, 

And  not  when  night  with  solemn  sway 

Bids  awe-hushed  souls  breathe  forth  in  prayers,  - 

Not  when  on  sickness'  weary  couch 

He  writhes  with  pain's  deep,  long-drawn  groan, 
Not  when  his  steps  in  freedom  touch 

The  fresh  green  turf,  —  is  man  alone. 

In  proud  Belshazzar's  gilded  hall, 

'Mid  music,  lights,  and  revelry, 
That  Present  Spirit  looked  on  all, 

From  crouching  slave  to  royalty. 


OMNIPRESENCE.  135 

When  sinks  the  pious  Christian's  soul, 

And  scenes  of  horror  daunt  his  eye, 
He  hears  it  whispered  through  the  air, 

"  A  Power  of  mercy  still  is  nigh." 

The  Power  that  watches,  guides,  defends, 

Till  man  becomes  a  lifeless  sod, 
Till  earth  is  naught,  —  naught,  earthly  friends,  — 

That  omnipresent  Power  —  is  God. 


1821. 


THE   PEARL-DIVER'S    SONG. 


DOWN,  down  to  the  depths  of  the  sea, 

With  a  fearless  plunge,  I  go, 
Down  to  the  realms  ye  ne'er  may  see, 

By  a  path  ye  cannot  know. 

Sun  !  shine  bright  in  the  high  blue  sky  ! 
Winds  !  o'er  the  curling  billows  fly  ! 
Far  from  the  light  and  air  of  day 
Lieth  my  dark  and  trackless  way. 
O'er  my  head  the  green  waves  close, 
Yellow  the  light  around  me  grows  ; 
Ringing  and  rushing  sounds  I  hear, 
Down  to  a  darker  realm  I  steer. 
Upwards  and  downwards,  shooting  by, 
Numberless  creatures  I  descry, 
Busy  with  fin  and  glittering  fair, 
Winging  their  way  like  birds  in  the  air. 
Deeper  I  sink,  and  phantoms  strange 
Through  the  dim  depths,  half  formless,  range, 


THE  PEARL-DIVER'S  SONG.  137 

Creatures  the  upper  sea  ne'er  knew, 
Shapes  such  as  fancy  never  drew. 
Balanced  awhile,  I  wait  and  quake, 
Till  welters  along  the  huge  sea-snake,  — 
Till,  looking  on  me  with  stony  eye, 
Monsters  unnamed  go  rolling  by. 

I  have  scaped  the  shark's  wide-gaping  jaw, 
I  have  broken  unscathed  the  mighty  law  ; 
Here,  on  old  ocean's  bed  of  sand, 
Hurtless,  a  living  man  I  stand. 
Where  the  winds  of  heaven  never  blew, 
Where  the  gentle  skies  ne'er  dropped  their  dew, 
Where  an  awful  calm  and  stillness  reign, 
And  strange,  dim  lights  the  waters  stain, 
Where  the  foot  of  man  hath  never  trod, 
Pacing  the  firm  white  sand  unshod, 
I  pluck  from  the  rock  the  clinging  shell 
That  bears  the  pearl  in  its  rough,  dark  cell. 

I  stay  not  to  wander  'mid  coral  groves, 
Wrhere  the  green-haired  mermaid  singing  roves,  — 
I  stay  not  to  look  on  mouldering  bones, 
And  the  thousand  wrecks  the  ocean  owns. 
The  pearl,  from  its  home  beneath  the  waves, 
The  pearl  from  the  depth  of  the  ocean  caves, 
12* 


138  THE  PEARL-DIVER'S  SONG. 

The  pure  white  pearl  in  triumph  I  bear 
To  the  joyous  realms  of  light  and  air ! 
Up,  up  to  the  realms  above, 
Up  to  the  summer  sun  I  love, 
Where  my  dripping  limbs  that  sun  shall  dry, 
And  the  winds  of  earth  a  welcome  sigh. 
I  look  on  the  light  my  glad  eye  craves, 
Proudly  I  ride  the  bounding  waves, 
Bearing  my  treasure,  and  like  a  dream 
The  sunless  realms  I  have  visited  seem. 

So  shall  the  beams  of  heaven  break 

On  the  soul  that  wins  that  glorious  stake,  — 

On  the  soul  no  syren  could  entice, 

That  hath  sought  and  found  the  pearl  of  price, 

And  longs  from  its  weary  task  below 

Up  to  its  home  of  light  to  go. 

1825. 


ON   FOR   EVER. 


WINDS  of  the  sky  !  ye  hurry  by 

On  your  strong  and  busy  wings, 
And  your  might  is  great,  and  your  song  is  high, 

And  true  is  the  tale  it  sings. 

"  On,  on,  for  ever  and  aye  ! 

Round  the  whole  earth  lieth  our  way, 

On,  on,  for  we  may  not  stay." 

Murmuring  stream  !  like  a  soft  dream 

Goest  thou  stealing  along, 
Pausing  not  in  the  shade  or  gleam, 

And  this  is  thy  ceaseless  song. 

"  On,  on,  for  ever  and  aye  ! 

Down  to  the  deep  lieth  my  way, 

On,  for  I  may  not  stay." 

Queen  of  yon  high  and  dim  blue  vault, 

Gliding  past  many  a  star, 
'Mid  their  bright  orbs  thou  dost  not  halt, 

And  a  voice  comes  down  from  thy  car  :  — 


140  ON   FOR   EVER. 

"  On,  on,  for  ever  and  aye  ! 

Round  the  whole  earth  lieth  my  way, 

On,  for  I  may  not  stay." 

Thoughts  of  my  mind,  ye  hurry  on  ; 

Whence  ye  do  come  I  may  not  know, 
But  from  my  soul  ye  straight  are  gone, 

In  a  ceaseless,  ceaseless  flow. 

"  On,  on,  for  ever  and  aye  ! 

By  a  behest  we  must  obey, 

On,  for  we  may  not  stay." 

Man  may  not  stay  !  there  is  no  rest 
On  earth  for  the  good  man's  foot ; 

He  should  go  forth  on  errands  blest, 
And  toil  for  unearthly  fruit 
On,  on,  for  ever  and  aye  ! 
Idle  not  precious  hours  away, 
On,  for  ye  may  rjot  stay  ! 

Sit  ye  not  down  in  sloth's  dark  bower, 
Where  shades  o'er  the  spirit  fall, 

Pause  not  to  wreathe  the  sunny  flower 
That  is  worn  in  pleasure's  hall. 
On,  on,  for  ever  and  aye  ! 
Duties  spring  up  along  your  way, 
Do  good,  —  for  ye  may  not  stay  ! 
1825. 


BANNOCKBURN. 


RED  light  was  in  the  western  sky, 
One  star  was  twinkling  lone  and  high, 
The  evening  breeze  came  murmuring  by, 
But  not  'mid  bending  grass  to  sigh. 
The  wild-flowers  it  would  woo  were  crushed  ; 
At  noon  the  storm  had  o'er  them  rushed, 
Fierce  hoof,  fleet  foot !     When  eve  came  on, 
The  dews  and  breezes  found  them  gone. 

The  wild-flowers  !  were  they  all  that  lay 
Crushed  out  of  beauty  'neath  the  ray 
Of  that  lone  star  ?    Alas  !  there  came 
That  day  the  dazzling  light  of  fame 
Upon  the  green  and  peaceful  plain, 
Bought  with  red  blood,  and  strife,  and  pain  ; 
And  fearfully  abroad  were  spread 
Dark  signs  of  life,  whence  life  had  fled. 
Ay,  the  cool  breeze  but  poured  its  breath 
O'er  the  dim  starlight  field  of  death, 


142  BANNOCKBURN. 

And  cooled  the  burning  lip  and  brow 
In  shame  and  agony  laid  low, 
Or  called  back  wandering  sense  and  life 
To  the  dull  eye  once  closed  on  strife, 
Or  o'er  each  youthful  hero  slain 
Crept  with  its  low  and  dirge-like  strain. 
Lights  from  the  victor's  tent  flashed  out, 
And  from  the  long  white  camp  a  shout 
Aye  and  anon  rose  up,  and  shook 
Faint,  wounded  frames  in  every  nook 
Where  they  had  crept  away  to  die. 

But  in  one  stately  tent,  O,  why 

Blazed  there  no  torch,  arose  no  voice, 

As  if  to  bid  the  stars  rejoice  ? 

The  groan,  the  deep,  half-stifled  groan, 

Of  manly  sorrow,  struggling,  lone, 

Came  from  that  tent ;  there  sat  the  Bruce  ! 

The  fiery  Edward !  tigers  loose 

Not  half  so  fierce  in  war,  the  hind 

Petted  by  b3auty  not  more  kind 

When  to  its  scabbard  went  the  blade, 

And  from  his  brow  the  helm  was  laid. 

There  sat  the  Bruce,  —  dark,  dark,  alone  ! 

O'er  his  rude  table  wildly  thrown 

His  warrior  arms,  and  sadly  bowed 

His  face,  and  quenched  its  lightnings  proud. 


BANNOCKBURN. 

Fast  rolled  his  hidden  tears,  and  grief,  — 
Man's  grief,  that  never  courts  relief 
Till  spent  in  whirlwind  agony,  — 
Mixed  with  his  triumph  misery. 
He  mourned  the  dead,  the  one  brave  youth 
His  spirit  loved  with  such  deep  truth 
As  dwells  in  young,  free,  noble  hearts 
Bound  each  to  each  till  life  departs. 
He  mourned  the  dead,  and  in  that  hour 
Proud  thoughts  of  victory  had  no  power  ; 
The  light  from  glory's  brow  had  fled, — 
She  could  not  bring  him  back  the  dead  ! 

"  My  Walter  !  "  —  rose  the  low,  deep  tones, 

Blended  with  choking  sobs  and  groans,  — 

"  They  say  a  glorious  battle  's  won, 

And  few  are  slain  ;  but  thou  art  one 

By  whose  most  precious  blood  was  bought 

My  victory  !     Would  God  had  brought 

Deep  ruin  on  my  arms  this  day, 

So  thou  hadst  not  been  snatched  away  !  " 

O  man  !  blind  man  !  that  very  morn 
Saw  in  his  breast  the  sole  hope  born 
Of  victory,  —  defeat  and  shame 
The  only  ills  whose  dread  could  claim 
Averting  prayers  from  that  proud  heart ! 
Now  what  could  granted  prayers  impart  ? 


144  BANNOCKBUBN. 

Fame  came,  too  dearly  bought  to  bless, 
And  victory  came,  but  valueless  !  — 
So  was  it  then,  so  shall  it  be  ! 
A  blank,  a  blight,  'mid  victory 
O'er  aught,  except  the  foe  within,  — 
The  struggling,  warring  rebel,  Sin  ! 

1828. 


THE   SICKLY   BABE. 


MINE  infant  was  a  poor,  weak  thing, 
No  strength  those  little  arms  to  fling, 
His  cheek  was  pale  and  very  thin, 
And  none  a  smile  from  him  could  win 
Save  I,  —  his  mother  !    O  my  child, 
How  could  they  think  my  love  so  wild  ? 

I  never  said  it,  but  I  knew, 
From  the  first  breath  my  baby  drew, 
That  I  must  soon  my  joy  resign,  — 
That  he  was  God's,  not  mine,  not  mine ! 
But  think  you  that  I  loved  him  less 
Because  I  saw  his  feebleness  ? 

To  others,  senseless  seemed  his  eye  ; 
They  looked,  and  only  thought,  "  He  '11  die  "  ; 
To  me,  that  little  suffering  frame 
Came  freighted  with  a  spirit's  claim,  — 
Came  full  of  blessing  to  my  heart,  — 
Brought  thoughts  I  could  to  none  impart. 

13 


146  THE   SICKLY  BABE. 

The  pale,  pale  bud  bloomed  not  on  earth  ; 
Blighted  and  stricken  from  his  birth, 
A  few  short  months  upon  my  breast 
He  lay,  then  smiled  and  went  to  rest : 
And  all  forgot  him,  born  to  die, 
All,  all  forgot,  —  save  God  and  I. 


MY  WATCH. 


LAST  night  I  lay  with  wakeful  eyes, 

With  eyes  that  ached  and  longed  to  sleep  ; 

And  as  the  weary  hours  went  by, 

One  sound,  beside  the  night-wind's  sigh, 

Stole  on  mine  ear. 

Unseen  beneath  my  pillow  lay 
My  little  watch,  and  until  day 
Its  pleasant  voice  went  ticking  on, 
Speaking  of  friends  and  things  long  gone  ; 
I  loved  to  hear. 

Ay  !  take  my  gems,  my  sparkling  rings, 
My  bird,  although  he  sweetly  sings, 
My  books,  beguilers  of  lone  hours, 
My  loved  and  almost  loving  flowers, 

But  leave  me  this. 


148  MY   WATCH. 

Not  for  thy  pearls  and  golden  case, 
Not  for  thy  true,  familiar  face, 
Not  for  thy  gentle  midnight  song, 
Dear  watch  !  have  I  loved  thee  so  long, 

Through  woe  and  bliss. 

The  hours  thou  markest  cling  to  thee, 
Through  thee  my  life  still  speaks  to  me  ; 
The  wedding  sunshine,  —  when  he  gave,  — 
The  gloom  that  settled  on  his  grave, 

Come  at  thy  voice. 

I  see  again  the  cradle  small, 
Where  lay  my  little  one,  my  all, 
Lulled  by  thy  steady  tick  above, 
Or  touching  thee  with  timid  love, 

A  plaything  choice. 

The  feverish  nights,  so  sick,  so  long, 
When  flesh  was  weak,  and  faith  was  strong, 
When  sunk  the  fire,  and  round  me  played 
Strange  shadows,  as  I  lay  and  prayed 

For  soft  release  ;  — 

The  days  when,  bounding  through  each  vein, 
Health  made  me  glad  of  life  again, 


MY    WATCH.  149 

And  while  my  busy  fingers  flew, 
Unconsciously  my  nature  grew 

In  strength  and  peace  ;  — 

All  these  sweet,  solemn  thoughts  arise, 
While  rest  on  thee  my  tearful  eyes, 
Companion  of  my  holiest  hours  ! 
Coffined  with  me,  and  wreathed  with  flowers, 
Thou  shall  be  laid. 

Machinery  of  wondrous  skill 
Wears  out,  in  spite  of  mortal  will ; 
Mine  must,  thou  gently  warnest  me  ; 
The  springs  run  down,  and  soon  rest  we 
In  quiet  shade. 

Peace,  peace  and  stillness  for  us  both. 
To  quit  life's  uses  art  thou  loth  ? 
Then,  busy  monitor,  tick  on  ; 
To  higher  tasks  must  I  be  gone  : 

Stay  thou,  and  teach  ! 

Not  of  the  past  alone  speak  thou  : 
Look  calmly  on  the  youthful  brow, 
Speak  gently  in  the  dead  of  night,  — 
O,  of  the  Future  talk,  —  of  Light, 

Which  man  may  reach  ! 

13* 


JUSTICE   AND   MERCY. 


I  SAW  in  my  dream  a  countless  throng, 
By  a  mighty  whirlwind  hurried  along,  — 

Hurried  along  through  boundless  space, 
With  a  fearful  onward,  onward  sweep, 
Looking  like  beings  roused  from  sleep, 

Till  they  met  their  Maker  face  to  face. 

Then  consciousness  waked  in  each  dark  eye, 
The  mercy-seat  shone  above  on  high, 

And  a  timid,  wild,  but  hopeful  gaze 
Those  wandering  spirits  upwards  cast, 
As  if  they  had  cause  to  joy  at  last, 

When  they  saw  the  seat  of  judgment  blaze. 

"  Justice !  "  they  cried,  with  sound  so  clear, 
The  stars  of  the  universe  needs  must  hear ; 

"  Justice  !  "  again,  again  rang  out, 
As  of  those  who  felt  the  hour  had  come 
Their  earth-choked  lips  should  no  more  be  dumb, 

And  all  God's  worlds  must  hear  their  shout. 


JUSTICE   AND    MERCY.  151 

They  were  the  souls  of  myriad  men, 

Who  had  died,  and  none  cared  how  or  when, — 

Who  had  dwelt  on  earth  as  slaves,  —  as  slaves  ! 
They  were  the  men  by  death  set  free, 

And  flocking  came  from  their  million  graves,  — 
They  who  on  earth  had  scarce  dared  be, 

Shaking  the  bonds  from  their  half-crushed  souls, 

Uttering  a  cry  that  rent  the  poles, 
For  they  knew  that  GOD  would  hear  them  then. 

And  afar  I  beheld  a  smaller  band, 

With  hands  clasped  over  their  downcast  eyes  ; 
For  before  the  blaze  they  could  not  stand, 

And  all  space  seemed  full  of  groans  and  sighs. 
Naked,  affrighted,  pierced  with  light, 

They  knew  themselves  and  their  deeds  at  last ; 
From  their  quivering  lips  to  the  throne  of  EIGHT 

A  faint  low  cry  of  "  Mercy  !  "  passed. 

Justice  and  Mercy  !     Hear  them  both  ! 

Bondman  and  master  both  are  here  ; 
Each  asketh  that  which  he  needeth  most.  — 

Now  pass  from  my  soul,  thou  dream  of  fear ! 


LINES    ON   CHANNING. 


WHEN  sinks  the  sun,  shall  we  forget 
That  but  to  us  his  beams  are  set  ? 
When  holy  spirits  pass  away, 
Shall  we  but  weep  o'er  feeble  clay  ? 

With  aspirations  like  thine  own, 
Pure  being,  whom  we  dare  not  mourn, 
O,  let  us  mark,  where  dwells  "  no  night,' 
A  new-born,  active,  burning  light. 

Shine  on  for  ever,  tranquil  star  ! 
Though  in  far  heaven  thy  glories  are, 
Their  solemn  beams  shall  from  this  hour 
Fall  on  our  souls  with  added  power. 

Each  thrilling  cadence,  each  mild  word 
Of  love  or  wisdom  we  have  heard, 
From  gifted  lips  now  still  and  cold, 
Shall  be  imbued  with  power  untold. 


LINES   ON   CHANNING.  153 

Go,  Christian  sage  !     Death  now  hath  wrought 
On  pages  glowing  with  thy  thought ; 
Death,  who  hath  calmed  all  pain,  hath  sealed 
Thy  power  on  earth,  —  and  heaven  revealed. 


THE    BABY'S    COMPLAINT. 


0  MOTHER,  dear  mother,  no  wonder  I  cry, 
More  wonder  by  far  that  your  baby  don't  die ; 
No  matter  what  ails  me,  no  matter  who  's  here, 
No  matter  how  hungry  the  "  poor  little  dear !  " 
No  matter  if  full,  or  all  out  of  breath, 

She  trots  me,  and  trots  me,  and  trots  me  to  death  ! 

1  love  my  dear  nurse,  but  I  dread  that  great  knee  ; 
I  like  all  her  talk,  but  woe  unto  me  ! 

She  can't  be  contented  with  talking  so  pretty, 
And  washing,  and  dressing,  and  doing  her  duty  ; 
All  that 's  very  well,  —  I  can  bear  soap  and  water, 
But,  mother,  she  is  an  unmerciful  trotter  ! 

Pretty  ladies,  I  want  just  to  look  at  your  faces  ; 
Pretty  lamp,  pretty  fire,  let  me  see  how  it  blazes  ; 
How  can  I,  my  head  going  bibbity  bob  ? 
And  she  trots  me  the  harder,  the  harder  I  sob  ; 


THE  BABY'S  COMPLAINT.  155 

0  mother,  do  stop  her  !  I  'm  inwardly  sore, 

1  hiccup  and  cry,  and  she  trots  me  the  more,  — 

And  talks  about  "  wind,"  when  't  is  she  makes  me  ache  ; 
Wish  't  would  blow  her  away,  for  poor  baby's  sake  ! 

Thank  goodness,  I  'm  still ;  O,  blessed  be  quiet ! 
I  'm  glad  my  dear  mother  is  willing  to  try  it ; 
Of  foolish  old  customs  my  mother  's  no  lover, 
And  the  wisdom  of  this  she  can  never  discover. 
I  '11  rest  me  awhile,  and  just  look  about, 
And  laugh  up  at  Sally,  who  peeps  in  and  out, 
And  pick  up  some  notions  as  soon  as  I  can, 
To  fill  my  small  noddle  before  I  'm  a  man. 

O  dear,  is  that  she  ?     Is  she  coming  so  soon  ? 
She  's  bringing  my  dinner  with  teacup  and  spoon  ; 
She  '11  hold  me  with  one  hand,  in  t'  other  the  cup, 
And  as  fast  as  it 's  down,  she  '11  just  shake  it  up  ; 
And  thumpity  thump,  with  the  greatest  delight, 
Her  heel  it  is  going  from  morning  till  night ; 
All  over  the  house  you  may  hear  it,  I  'm  sure, 
Trot,  trotting !    Just  think  what  I  'm  doomed  to  endure  ! 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 


14 


HER    FATHER 


THE    FOLLOWING    PAGES 


AKE    AFFECTIONATELY    INSCRIBED     BY 


THE    AUTHOR. 


INTRODUCTION. 


THE  author  of  the  following  tale  deems  some 
apology  due  to  the  public,  for  offering  them  so 
slight  a  production,  founded  on  a  subject  so  fer 
tile  in  materials  ;  for  Joanna  the  First  of  Naples, 
the  high-minded  and  ill-fated  prototype  of  Mary 
Stuart,  bloomed  and  perished  at  an  epoch  in  the 
world's  history  which  can  scarcely  be  exceeded  in 
interest  by  any  given  period.  It  presents  a  theme 
worthy  of  the  departed  Scott,  or  the  living  James. 

Some  years  since,  the  writer  perused  Mrs.  Jame 
son's  Lives  of  The  Female  Sovereigns  with  great 
pleasure,  and  the  impression  was  a  lasting  one,  — 
particularly  so  with  regard  to  the  biography  of 
Joanna.  She  was  led  by  it  to  examine  all  the  rec 
ords  of  that  celebrated  queen  to  which  she  had 
access.  When  afterwards  deprived  of  her  custom- 

14* 


162  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

ary  occupations,  for  two  or  three  years,  by  partial 
blindness,  one  of  her   chief  resources   against    the 
weariness   of   forced   idleness   was   in   exercises   of 
the  memory  and  invention.     She  sometimes  enter 
tained  herself  with  weaving  fictions  and  planning 
little  works,  destined  never  to  come  forth  from  the 
chambers  of  her  brain  j  and,  amid  the  visionary  pro 
cessions  which  moved  through  her  darkened  apart 
ment,  many  a  time  .did  the  majestic  figure  of  the 
Neapolitan  queen"  sweep  sadly  by,   the  heroine    of 
the  unwritten  romance.     As  a  memorial  of   those 
hours,   when  the  faculties  mercifully  bestowed  on 
every  human  mind  asserted  their  power  to  charm 
away  physical  evil,  she  has,  the  last  summer,  com 
mitted  some  of  their  fruits  to  paper,  and  the  task 
has  again  beguiled  a  few  weeks  of  ill  health.     Want 
.of  eyesight  has  prevented  her  indulging  in  research 
es  that  might  have  graced  her  pages  with  antiqua- 
,rian  lore  ;  but  she  trusts  she  has  avoided  any  serious 
anachronisms.     Her  narrative  is  not  a  work  of  pure 
fiction,  as  most  of  the  leading  characters  and  prin 
cipal  events  are  historical  ;  and  she  has  endeavoured 


INTRODUCTION.  163 

to  take  no  unwarrantable  liberties  with  facts,  as 
recorded  by  writers  who  believed  Joanna  innocent 
of  the  crimes  charged  upon  her  by  her  enemies. 

For  a  time  the  author  contemplated  attempting 
a  tragedy  on  the  subject  which  is  now  presented 
in  a  less  ambitious  form  ;  but  a  strong  conscious 
ness  of  the  high  nature  of  the  undertaking,  and 
of  the  difficulties  to  be  encountered  by  any  one 
who  proposes  to  conform  to  the  rules  laid  down 
by  the  established  canons  of  criticism,  deterred  her 
from  so  hazardous  an  enterprise. 

In  the  following  tale,  she  has  remembered  a  wish 
often  expressed  in  her  hearing  by  judicious  moth 
ers  ;  she  has  endeavoured  to  discard  the  machinery 
usually  employed  in  works  of  fiction,  and  to  bring 
strong  passions  and  affections  into  play,  without  the 
cooperation  of  that  on  which  the  main  interest 
of  a  romantic  story  commonly  depends.  She  re 
spectfully  waits  the  decision  of  the  public  as  to 
the  degree  of  interest  excited  for  a  heroine,  whose 
fears  and  trials  are  not  interwoven  with  a  love-tale. 
Her  little  work  is  published  in  the  hope,  that,  if 


164  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

it  win  the  approbation  of  her  young  readers,  they 
may  be  lured  by  it  to  the  fountains  of  history,  ever 
pouring  forth  bright  streams  of  pleasure  and  in 
struction.  As  the  current  comes  gliding  down  from 
the  urns  of  dim  antiquity,  it  brings  us  awful  truths, 
that  deserve  contemplation  ;  —  the  insufficiency  of 
human  greatness  ;  the  dangers  of  a  blinding  pros 
perity  ;  the  terrible  retribution,  which  so  often 
overtakes  guilt,  even  on  this  side  of  the  grave. 


JOANNA    OF    NAPLES. 


CHAPTER    I. 

IT  was  in  the  month  of  June,  in  the  year  1382,  on 
a  day  of  unusual  heat,  that  a  solitary  female  walked 
her  apartment  in  the  fairest  palace  of  Naples,  while 
the  whole  city  lay  hushed  under  the  spell  of  the 
calm,  sultry  noon.  The  siesta  was  upon  the  eyelids 
of  the  noble  in  his  hall,  and  the  lazarone  stretched 
his  indolent  limbs  in  the  shade  of  some  lofty  wall  ; 
while  the  very  waves  of  the  lovely  bay  came  mur 
muring  sleepily  as  it  were  to  the  beach,  where  not  a 
living  thing  stirred  along  the  wide  sweep.  The  sails 
of  the  fishing-boats  hung  down  motionless  ;  the  at 
mosphere  seemed  to  quiver  above  the  roofs  of  the 
city  ;  the  cone  of  Vesuvius,  from  whose  apparently 
extinguished  fires  no  smoke  had  risen  for  nearly  two 
centuries,  rose  clearly  defined  in  the  pure  realms  of 
upper  air,  and  the  sun,  from  a  cloudless  sky,  poured 
down  a  flood  of  yellow  beams  that  seemed  to  oppress 
man,  beast,  and  inanimate  nature  with  their  fervor. 


166  JOAXNA   OF   NAPLES. 

But  there  was  one,  in  that  vast  and  populous  city, 
who  appeared  unconscious  of  the  hour  and  its  influ 
ences.  She  was  pacing  a  superb  room  in  a  palace 
which  overlooked  the  bay,  and  held  crushed  in  her 
hand  a  loose  packet,  while  meditation,  of  a  deep  and 
anxious  character,  sat  in  her  downcast  eyes.  Her  tall 
figure  was  worthy  of  the  countenance  where  still  lin 
gered  an  exquisite  loveliness,  though  youth  had  long 
since  fled ;  yet  the  touch  of  time  had  scarcely  woven 
a  single  thread  of  silver  among  the  dark  curls  which 
would  have  fallen  in  profusion  about  her  face,  had 
they  not  been  confined,  with  a  propriety  becoming 
her  years,  by  a  circlet  of  gold  round  her  regal  brows, 
from  which  a  long  veil  depended  over  her  graceful 
form  and  purple  velvet  robe.  Her  pale  Italian  com 
plexion  suited  the  Roman  cast  of  her  features.  The 
sadness  of  her  countenance  was  not  that  of  a  single 
hour's  sorrow  ;  a  settled  thoughtfulness  was  in  her 
fine,  but  deep-sunken  eyes,  which  marked  her  for 
one  who  had  long  been  familiar  with  the  lessons  of 
affliction  ;  —  yet  this  was  a  queen  !  In  one  of  the 
fairest  realms  on  earth  she  had  been  the  loveliest  and 
loftiest !  the  theme  of  poets  in  that  land  of  song, 
and  fitted  by  the  graces  of  her  mind,  as  well  as  per 
son,  to  wake  and  claim  admiration  from  the  most 
gifted  intellects  of  the  age.  It  was  the  beautiful  but 
unfortunate  Joanna,  queen  of  Naples,  whose  exist 
ence  had  opened  with  every  prospect  of  earthly  fe 
licity  which  the  heart  of  woman  could  crave,  and 
who  had  been  early  taught  that  rank,  beauty,  wealth, 


JOAXXA   OF   NAPLES.  167 

and  talent  cannot  ward  off  the  fitting  trials  of  this 
life  from  a  helpless  human  being  ;  powerful  over  a 
few  fellow-creatures  it  might  be,  —  powerless  in  the 
hands  of  the  unseen  Ruler  of  people  and  potentates. 
The  meridian  of  her  eventful  life  was  past,  and  there 
was  little  promise  that  its  wane  would  afford  that 
calm  which  a  wearied  spirit  craves,  when  the  con 
flicts  of  youth  have  been  fierce  and  many. 

She  sat  down  and  looked  between  the  massy  col 
umns  upon  the  prospect ;  —  it  was  beautiful,  but  life 
less.  The  desolate  feeling  in  her  own  heart  gave  a 
meaning  to  the  universal  repose  which  did  not  belong 
to  it  ;  and  she  felt  as  if  the  unseen  multitude  who 
slumbered  under  that  broad  sky  were  to  wake  no 
more.  She  cast  her  eyes  to  the  mountain,  and  re 
membering  that  it  had  been  more  than  once  the 
cause  of  sudden  destruction  to  thousands,  she  shud 
dered.  "But  no!"  she  thought ;  "the  evils  I  have 
reason  to  dread  for  my  people  are  of  another  stamp  : 
and  these  gloomy  forebodings  rise  not  from  the  past 
dealings  of  God,  but  from  what  I  know  is  in  man,  — 
cruel,  treacherous  man."  She  turned  over  the  leaves 
of  the  packet  in  her  hand,  conned  passages  with  a 
troubled  air,  and,  passing  her  hand  over  her  temples 
as  if  they  ached,  she  sunk  into  a  long,  unbroken  rev 
erie,  until  the  hottest  hours  were  past.  A  soft  breeze 
at  last  began  to  stir  among  the  orange-trees  below 
the  balcony ;  the  sounds  of  voices  rose  once  more  on 
the  air,  and  a  few  figures  appeared  moving  along  the 
beach.  Still  she  sat,  her  head  leaning  against  a  mar- 


168  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

ble  column,  her  eyes  closed,  and  her  fine  features 
occasionally  disturbed  by  the  current  of  busy  and 
anxious  thought  within.  A  faint  tinge,  a  reflection 
from  the  crimson  drapery  that  hung  between  her  and 
the  broad  glare  of  day,  was  thrown  upon  her  cheek, 
and  the  unconscious  grace  of  her  attitude  would  have 
riveted  a  sculptor's  eye.  The  apartment  was  separ 
ated  from  two  other  chambers  by  doors,  now  thrown 
open  for  the  sake  of  coolness,  yet  hung  with  rich 
curtains,  waving  in  the  rising  breeze.  A  sound  is 
sued  thence  which  roused  the  dejected  queen  ;  the 
unsteady  steps  and  suppressed  laughter  of  children 
came  from  the  anteroom,  and  presently  the  curtain 
was  put  aside,  and  two  lovely  faces  peeped  archly 
through.  Sorrow  fled  instantly  from  the  counte 
nance  of  Joanna,  and  she  extended  her  arms  to  re 
ceive  the  little  intruders,  who,  finding  themselves 
perceived,  came  laughing  and  bounding  towards  her. 
One  was  a  noble,  animated  boy,  about  five  years  of 
age ;  the  other,  a  little  girl,  scarce  three ;  and  both 
for  an  instant  clung  round  the  neck  of  her  who  gave 
them  so  loving  a  welcome.  The  boy,  however,  soon 
betook  himself  to  his  sports,  coursing  about  the  apart 
ment  on  the  broken  spear  which  he  called  his  war- 
horse  ;  while  the  little  girl,  with  the  gentler  habits 
of  her  sex,  sat  contentedly  on  the  lap  of  the  queen, 
playing  with  the  rich  ornaments  of  her  dress,  ever 
and  anon  shaking  back  the  curls  from  her  cheeks, 
and  looking  up  with  her  inquiring  eyes,  as  she  await 
ed  answers  to  her  innumerable  questions.  She  had 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  169 

already  drawn  the  pearl  bracelets  from  the  royal  wrists 
they  adorned,  and  fastened  one  about  her  own  brows, 
while  the  other  encircled  her  throat,  and  was  in  the 
act  of  transferring  the  sparkling  rings  of  the  queen 
to  her  own  tiny  fingers,  laughing  merrily  at  their 
disproportionate  size,  when  the  drapery  was  again 
put  aside  from  the  door,  and  a  young  and  beautiful 
female  entered.  A  glance  would  have  decided  her 
to  be  the  mother  of  the  children,  though  her  fairy- 
like  proportions  and  delicacy  of  complexion  gave  her 
the  appearance  of  extreme  youth.  She  was,  in  fact, 
scarce  two-and-twenty,  but  had  been  six  years  the 
wife  of  Charles  of  Durazzo. 

When  Joanna  found  herself  bereaved  of  her  be 
loved  sister,  she  had  lavished  upon  her  daughter  the 
deepest  affections  of  her  nature  ;  and  to  Charles,  the 
son  of  her  enemy,  as  well  as  to  Margaret,  the  daugh 
ter  of  her  sister  Maria,  she  had  manifested  the  ten 
derness  of  a  mother.  Her  palace  had  been  their 
abode  after  the  decease  of  their  parents,  and  in  their 
early  union  she  had  rejoiced.  There  the  young  Mar 
garet  had  found  a  home  from  her  very  birth  ;  there 
she  was  wedded  ;  there  had  her  two  children  been 
born  ;  and  there  she  was  now  bringing  them  up 
peacefully,  under  the  protection  of  the  august  Jo 
anna  ;  while  her  husband,  Charles  of  Durazzo,  bore 
arms  in  the  less  genial  regions  of  Germany.  Never 
was  there  a  nobler  instance  of  magnanimity  than  Jo 
anna's,  in  adopting  the  son  of  that  prince  of  Durazzo 
who  had  so  often  disquieted  her  reign ;  and  her  ex- 
is 


170  JOANNA    OF   NAPLES. 

treme  fondness  for  the  youth  seemed  justified  by  his 
bravery  and  talents.  The  young  Margaret  delighted 
in  pouring  forth  the  idolizing  feelings  of  her  heart  to 
one  who  had  acted  the  part  of  a  mother  to  both  her 
self  and  her  husband.  In  the  affection  of  her  niece, 
Joanna  had  found  consolation  during  the  absence  of 
her  adopted  son  ;  and  her  childless  desolation  had 
been  cheered  by  the  caresses  and  sprightliness  of 
their  offspring.  "  Look,"  said  she  to  the  approach 
ing  mother,  "  your  little  Joanna  would  steal  my  scep 
tre,  if  it  were  within  her  reach,  without  waiting  for 
the  day  when  it  may  be  hers  !  "  There  was  some 
thing  sad  in  her  tone,  which  was  inconsistent  with 
the  sportive  manner  in  which  she  held  up  the  smil 
ing  face  of  the  little  girl,  to  show  the  pearl  bandeau 
on  her  forehead  ;  but  there  was  no  reply  to  her  re 
mark.  Absorbed  in  the  children,  it  was  some  mo 
ments  before  she  observed  the  unwonted  abstraction 
of  their  mother.  The  boy  was  the  first  who  drew 
her  attention  to  it  ;  as  he  came  making  a  sportive 
pass  at  them  with  his  mimic  weapon,  she  saw  a  sud 
den  change  pass  over  his  bright  face,  and  he  stood 
gazing  at  his  mother  with  a  look  of  anxious  wonder. 
Joanna  turned,  and  observed  that  tears  were  trickling 
down  the  cheeks  where  smiles  were  wont  to  play. 
She  rose  in  surprise  and  summoned  the  attendants  to 
take  away  the  children.  They  yielded  reluctantly, 
and  the  miniature  queen  resisted,  as  they  took  the 
borrowed  pearls  from  her  and  led  her  away,  turning 
back  her  face  over  her  fair  round  shoulder  with  many 
a  sob. 


JOANNA    OF    NAPLES.  171 

When  they  were  alone,  Joanna  endeavoured  to 
draw  from  her  pale  and  trembling  niece  the  cause  of 
her  agitation ;  but  in  vain.  She  strove  to  speak,  but 
seemed  half  choked  with  emotion  ;  and  it  was  not 
until  she  had  thrown  herself  on  the  neck  of  her 
adopted  mother,  and  poured  forth  a  flood  of  tears, 
that  she  uttered  the  words,  "  My  husband  !  " 

"  What  news  from  him  ?  "  exclaimed  Joanna  ; 
"  you  heard  from  him  this  day,  by  the  same  courier 
who  brought  despatches  to  me  ?  Is  he  not  well  ?  I 
have  not  heard  otherwise,  —  at  least  not  of  his  bodily 
health." 

"He  is  well,"  said  Margaret,  "but,  O  my  mother, 

my  dear  mother  !  he  bids  me "  She  could 

not  finish  the  sentence,  and  Joanna  waited  in  dismay. 

"  Margaret,"  said  she  at  last,  "  can  it  be  possible 
that  I  divine  what  you  would  say  ?  Can  it  be  that 
he  orders  you  to  leave  me  ?  " 

Margaret  faintly  murmured,  "  It  is  so,"  and  sunk 
weeping  on  the  cushions. 

The  blood  rushed  over  the  face  of  Joanna,  and 
forsook  it  again.  Becoming  deadly  pale,  she  whis 
pered  to  herself,  "  Proof  strong  and  terrible !  "  and 
walked  to  the  farthest  end  of  the  apartment,  throw 
ing  aside  the  drapery  from  the  window,  and  leaning 
her  head  against  a  column,  as  if  in  hopes  that  the 
fresh  air  might  revive  her.  The  brief  illness  passed 
away  ;  but  her  lips  were  still  white,  when  she  re 
turned  with  a  steady  step,  and  taking  the  hands  of 
Margaret  in  her  own,  she  said  quietly,  "  Margaret  of 


172  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

Dnrazzo,  you  shall  go  ;  —  with  all  the  honors  of  your 
rank  you  shall  pass  from  my  palace,  from  my  king 
dom,  from  my  protection,  to  that  of  your  hus 
band." 

"  O  my  mother  !  "  again  exclaimed  the  princess, 
"  do  you  part  with  me  so  lightly  ?  " 

"  So  lightly !  "  repeated  Joanna,  pressing  her  hand 
to  her  forehead ;  "  God  only  knows  whether  my 
heart  will  break  or  not  ;  but  think  you  I  am  one  to 
mock  a  husband's  claim  ?  Have  I  taught  you  to 
love  Charles  from  your  cradle,  —  have  I  given  my 
benediction  on  your  nuptials, — have  I  been  to  him 
in  the  place  of  his  departed  mother,  seeking  in  all 
things  to  gratify  each  wish  of  his  heart,  — -  and  think 
you  I  could  rob  him  of  you  at  last  ?  Margaret,  were 
I  to  lie  down  this  night  on  yonder  couch,  and  know 
that  I  should  never  rise  from  it  more,  I  would  first 
speed  you  on  your  perilous  journey.  Your  children, 
too,  doth  he  summon  them  ?  " 

"  He  bids  me  sue  for  their  company  also ;  and  why 
I  weep  so  bitterly  I  know  not,  since  he  asks  but  a 
visit,  —  a  short  visit,  —  and  promises  to  escort  us  to 
dear  Naples  again  in  a  few  weeks.  But,  mother  !  I 
have  never,  never  left  you  for  a  single  day,  and 
though  it  be  to  meet  my  adored  husband " 

Joanna  interrupted  her:  —  "  The  children,  too  !  I 
see  it  all !  The  involuntary  hostages  must  be  with 
drawn.  Margaret,  look  me  in  the  face  !  " 

Astonished  at  the  almost  stern  demand,  Margaret 
looked  up  ;  Joanna  fixed  a  penetrating  gaze  on  her 


JOAXXA   OF   NAPLES.  173 

sweet,  innocent  countenance,  and  then  asked,  —  "  Do 
you  not  know  why  your  husband  thus  summons  you 
to  the  rude  camp  ?  " 

"  Nay,  mother,  is  it  strange  that  he  should  wish  to 
see  me  ?  How  long  is  it  since  he  has  beheld  wife 
or  child  ?  " 

Joanna  contemplated  her  ingenuous  features  a  mo 
ment  longer,  and  then  murmuring,  "  Guileless  as 
the  morning  dew  !  "  turned  away  with  a  deep  sigh. 
"  No,  Margaret ;  it  is  not  strange  that  he  should  wish 
to  see  you.  Go  to  him,  my  child  ;  your  visit  may 
not  be  so  brief  as  you  imagine  ;  but  be  our  separa 
tion  long  or  short,  my  blessing  will  be  with  you. 
And  tell  him  I  spoke  no  word  to  detain  you,  uttered 
no  murmur,  breathed  no  doubt."  The  last  words 
died  away  in  a  whisper,  and  Joanna  turned  to  leave 
the  kneeling  princess  with  an  air  of  abstraction ;  but 
suddenly  recollecting  herself,  asked,  "Does  he  name 
a  day  for  your  departure  ?  " 

"  To-morrow,"  faintly  articulated  Margaret  ;  "  a 
troop  of  horse  for  my  escort  are  without  the  city." 

Joanna's  cheek  was  again  flushed,  as  she  exclaimed, 
"  So  soon  !  Are  the  hours  so  precious  to  him  !  Then 
the  hurricane  will  come  on  apace  !  Margaret,"  she 
added,  more  calmly,  "  set  forth  in  the  cool  hour  of 
morn,  but  do  not  seek  to  bid  me  farewell ;  do  not 
send  the  children  to  me."  Her  lip  quivered  as  she 
spoke.  "I  am  not  quite  well,  methinks ;  and  I  will 
not  sadden  their  gay  setting  forth  upon  their  travels 
with  my  tears.  I  have  forebodings  that  it  may  be 


174  JOAXXA   OF   NAPLES. 

long  ere  we  meet  again,  and  in  solitary  meditation 
only  can  I  combat  the  weaknesses  of  my  nature." 

"Not  well!  "  exclaimed  Margaret  ;  "nay,  mother, 
if  you  are  not  well,  how  can  I  leave  you  ?  Charles 
would  not  ask  it,  —  would  not  expect  it.  Your  color 
comes  and  goes  strangely  ;  indeed  you  are  not  well, 
and  do  you  imagine  I  can  depart  to-morrow  ?  " 

Her  plaintive  question  brought  the  tears  at  last 
into  the  burning  eyes  of  Joanna.  She  pressed  her 
lips  on  the  forehead  of  the  affectionate  being,  and 
said  gently,  "  You  must  go,  my  child ;  it  is  a  matter 
of  duty,  —  of  state  policy ;  and  my  honor  as  a  queen 
bids  me  not  impede  you.  Alas  !  why  should  she 
who  bears  the  crown  on  her  brow  wear  the  heart  of 
a  woman  to  ache  with  a  woman's  sorrows?  Go. 
Margaret  ;  I  am  not  ill,  save  in  the  spirit,  and  that 
you  have  often  seen  weighed  down  with  many  cares. 
Leave  me,  but  do  not,  do  not  forget  me  !  do  not 
cease  to  love  me  !  And  Margaret,  —  hush  !  let  not 
the  walls  hear  me,  —  if  evil  counsellors  come  be 
tween  me  and  the  children  of  my  adoption,  if  they 
seek  to  steal  away  thy  husband's  love  for  me,  if 
they  bid  him  wrong  me,  insult  me,  rob  me,  bring 
him  back,  dearest  Margaret !  Win  him  again  to  this 
maternal  embrace  !  Speak  to  him  like  an  angel  of 
peace,  and  save  me  from  the  wretchedness  of  despis 
ing  one  I  have  idolized  !  " 

Overcome  by  her  emotions,  Joanna  remained  hard 
ly  conscious  how  far  she  had  been  hurried,  with  her 
hands  grasping  firmly  those  of  her  kneeling  niece, 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  175 

and  her  head  bowed  down  upon  her  breast.  Marga 
ret  continued  a  moment  speechless,  with  an  air  of 
utter  amazement  and  horror,  scarcely  believing  she 
had  heard  aright,  and  then,  springing  to  her  feet,  she 
exclaimed,  "  Mother  !  what  is  it  you  say  ?  what  is 
it  you  fear  ?  whom  do  you  doubt  ?  Is  it  of  my 
husband  you  speak  ?  of  Charles  ?  Have  the  slan 
derers  dared  touch  his  unspotted  fame  ?  You  do  not, 
—  you  cannot  believe  one  word  uttered  against  his 
love  and  truth." 

"  Margaret,"  said  Joanna,  "  there  are  things  which 
may  not  be  lightly  believed  ;  I  believe  nothing  ;  but 
strange  rumors  have  reached  me.  They  tell  me  the 
tempter  has  been  with  him  ;  he  is  but  a  man,  my 
child,  and  an  ambitious  one,  —  and  I  have  lived  to 
see  the  surest  footed  fall,  in  slippery  paths." 

"  O  mother  !  "  said  Margaret,  "•  bitter  must  have 
been  the  experiences  which  have  poisoned  so  noble  a 
mind  as  yours  with  suspicion.  I  will  go  to  my  hus 
band  ;  would  I  were  with  him  now  !  for  I  know  that 
a  truer  heart  never  beat.  I  will  bring  him  to  your 
very  feet  to  deny  the  calumny  with  his  own  lips. 
He  false,  who  has  worshipped  you  from  his  infancy, 
and  would  have  poured  out  his  blood  a  thousand 
times  in  defence  of  your  rights !  O,  none  but  a  wife 
can  know  the  heart  of  her  husband  !  and  sure  am  I 
that  Charles  loves,  venerates,  and  adores  you,  as  I 
do.  Would  it  were  to-morrow  !  " 

"  Would  that  another  and  another  morrow  were 
past,  —  until  the  last !  "  said  Joanna  ;  "  for  the  burden 


176  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

of  life  grows  heavier  each  day,  and  I  fear  I  shall  be 
come  weary  of  it.  I  meant  not  to  disturb  your  peace 
prematurely,  my  child  ;  I  meant  to  have  locked  up 
miserable  fears  in  my  own  heart,  until  their  fulfil 
ment  came  ;  but  to  distrust  the  affection  of  Charles 
has  given  me  pangs  that  would  not  bear  concealment. 
Leave  me,  Margaret.  To  part  with  you  at  all  is  woe 
enough ;  to  part  with  you  thus  is  a  trial,  under 
which  I  must  seek  consolation  at  the  foot  of  the 
altar.  There,  at  least,  I  have  found  peace  in  the  sad 
dest  hours  I  have  ever  known  ;  and  there  I  trust  I 
shall  yet  find  it,  whatever  darker  doom  may  be  in 
store  for  me." 

As  she  spoke,  she  drew  a  small  golden  crucifix 
from  her  girdle,  and  pressing  it  to  her  lips,  as  she 
raised  her  swimming  eyes  to  heaven,  she  placed  one 
hand  on  the  head  of  Margaret ;  and  whispering  a 
short  Latin  invocation  to  the  protecting  Virgin,  she 
turned,  and,  walking  slowly  to  the  farther  end  of  the 
room,  disappeared  through  a  passage  leading  to  a 
chapel.  Margaret,  half  blinded  by  her  tears,  gazed 
on  her  majestic  figure  till  it  vanished,  and  then,  with 
a  bewildered  air  and  heavy  heart,  retired  to  her  own 
apartment,  to  order  hasty  preparations  for  her  de 
parture. 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  177 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  morning  star  was  yet  glittering  over  Vesu 
vius,  when  the  blast  of  the  horn  was  heard  in  the 
square  before  the  palace,  and  knights,  gorgeously  ar 
rayed,  rode  in  from  all  quarters.  Joanna  had  given 
orders  that  her  niece  should  be  attended  from  the 
city  by  a  splendid  cortege  ;  and  the  proudest  barons 
of  her  court  came  forth  in  obedience  to  the  behest  of 
their  queen,  the  younger  not  unwilling  to  prance  in 
the  train  of  so  beautiful  a  princess. 

Margaret  roused  herself  from  her  broken  slumbers 
to  a  sad  consciousness  that  the  day  of  her  first  de 
parture  from  home  had  arrived  ;  an  event  which  can 
be  devoid  of  interest  only  to  the  unthinking  or  cold- 
hearted,  and  Margaret  was  neither.  The  deeper 
causes  of  uneasiness,  arising  from  her  parting  con 
versation  with  the  queen,  were  already  floating  from 
her  mind  ;  for  she  had  persuaded  herself  that  all 
would  soon  be  well.  She  had  but  to  see  her  hus 
band,  to  converse  with  him,  and  all  would  be  ex 
plained  ;  they  would  return  together  to  the  home  of 
their  youth,  and  the  heart  of  their  adopted  mother 
would  be  eased,  so  that  with  the  full  ardor  of  youth 
ful  hope  and  confidence  she  prepared  to  set  forth. 
A  flush  of  indignation,  indeed,  mantled  her  cheek,  as 
she  remembered  how  base  had  been  the  insinuations 
conveyed  to  Joanna  ;  but  her  hope  of  an  immediate 


178  JOANNA    OF   NAPLES. 

and  proud  confutation  was  triumphant  above  all  other 
emotions ;  and  with  a  step  as  elastic  as  her  own  spir 
its,  she  descended  to  the  court-yard,  at  the  head  of  her 
maiden  train.  The  great  gates  were  thrown  open, 
and  she  saw  the  square  filled  with  plumed  heads, 
glittering  arms,  and  waving  banners.  Her  little  son, 
whom  she  led,  broke  from  her  and  clapped  his  hands 
exultingly  at  the  spectacle,  while  the  blasts  of  the 
trumpets  and  shouts  of  the  throng  gave  token  of 
the  popularity  which  attended  Joanna  and  her 
family. 

Accustomed  to  the  saddle,  which  had  already  as 
sumed  the  shape  used  by  fair  equestrians  in  modern 
days,  Margaret  had  preferred  commencing  her  jour 
ney  on  the  palfrey  she  rode  on  hawking  expeditions ; 
and  the  milk-white  animal,  gentle  as  he  was  beauti 
ful,  stood  at  the  foot  of  a  flight  of  marble  steps, 
sweeping  the  ground  with  his  flowing  tail  and  rich 
caparisons.  As  she  presented  herself  to  the  public 
gaze,  glowing  with  youth  and  beauty,  the  first  red 
beams  of  the  rising  sun  fell  upon  her,  and  shrinking 
at  the  unexpected  acclamations  of  the  people,  she 
looked  like  a  young  Aurora,  retiring  as  the  god  of 
day  advanced.  Even  as  she  descended  the  steps, 
conducted  by  a  courtly  knight,  her  reverted  glances 
scanned  the  front  of  the  palace,  for  she  hoped  to 
meet  with  one  kind,  parting  smile  from  her  whose 
presence  she  had  been  forbidden  to  seek  ;  but  it  was 
in  vain  ;  and  while  she  mounted  and  rode  forth  into 
the  square,  courteously  bowing  her  head  and  lav- 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  179 

ishing  her  grateful  smiles  on  the  populace,  she  felt 
that  her  eyes  were  filling  with  tears  of  disappoint 
ment. 

She  did  not,  however,  pass  forth  unmarked  by  one 
whose  heart  yearned  after  her  as  she  went.  The 
royal  canopy  had  that  night  sheltered  a  royal  watch 
er,  not,  alas !  for  the  first  time  in  her  eventful  life. 
With  the.  first  gray  of  morning,  Joanna  had  again 
resorted  to  the  chapel,  and  there  she  strove  to  shut 
out  the  confused  sounds  which  indicated  the  early 
and  unusual  stir  in  that  part  of  the  city,  where  quiet 
generally  prevailed  at  this  hour,  notwithstanding  the 
restless  habits  of  the  Neapolitans.  The  distant  tram 
pling  and  neighing  of  steeds,  the  shrill  blasts  of  the 
trumpets,  and  the  bustle  in  a  remote  wing  of  the 
palace  occupied  by  Margaret,  occasionally  broke  on 
her  devotions  ;  but  at  last  that  most  peculiar  sound, 
unlike  all  others,  and  most  familiar  to  royal  ears,  rose 
upon  the  air,  and  came  with  a  full  swell  along  the 
arched  roof  of  the  chapel,  —  the  power  of  innumer 
able  human  voices,  united  in  one  mighty  and  pro 
longed  shout.  She  dropped  her  rosary;  —  she  knew 
that  Margaret  was  leaving  the  safe  and  happy  home 
of  her  youth.  Again  it  came  surging  through  the 
lonely  chapel  ;  and  the  imperious  promptings  of  af 
fection  could  no  longer  be  resisted.  She  left  the 
chapel  and  hastened  to  a  gallery  which  overlooked 
the  square  ;  where,  through  a  latticed  window,  she 
might  gaze  unobserved  on  the  splendors  beneath. 
Little  attraction  had  the  pomp  of  her  nobility  for  her 


180  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

eyes,  riveted  on  one  object  alone.  She  saw  the  prin 
cess  in  the  centre  of  the  glittering  throng,  managing 
her  palfrey  with  exquisite  grace,  while  her  long, 
white  plumes,  lifted  up  by  the  morning  breeze, 
danced  gayly  over  her  face,  and  gave  to  view  its 
bright  and  bewitching  smiles.  For  a  single  instant 
a  pang  shot  through  the  heart  of  Joanna.  "  He 
would  make  her  their  queen,  even  now,"  thought 
she,  "  and  cannot  wait  till  the  faded  and  forgotten 
Joanna  rests  in  her  grave  !  "  She  covered  her  face 
to  shut  out  the  spectacle  ;  she  struggled  inwardly, 
and  the  better  feelings  of  her  noble  nature  rose  with 
a  momentary  prayer,  for  she  had  learned  that  the 
worst  enemies  of  our  peace  are  not  without,  but 
within  us,  and  to  triumph  there  is  to  triumph  every 
where. 

When  she  looked  again,  the  litters  containing  the 
children  and  their  attendants  were  passing,  but  the 
form  of  Margaret  was  still  plainly  visible  ;  and  she 
now  saw  her  face  sadly  reverted.  The  princess  was 
about  to  vanish  from  the  square,  when,  by  a  sudden 
impulse  of  feeling,  she  checked  her  steed,  —  reined 
him  about;  the  knights  around  her  drew  up, — the 
procession  halted  ;  and  a  solemn  and  respectful  si 
lence  pervaded  the  whole  throng,  while  the  departing 
princess  took  one  last,  mournful  survey  of  the  palace. 
Joanna's  hand  was  upon  the  lattice  ;  her  emotion  was 
almost  irrepressible.  She  longed  to  rush  upon  the 
balcony,  and,  in  the  presence  of  her  assembled  people, 
bestow  another  parting  benediction  on  the  lovely  and 


JOANNA    OF   NAPLES.  181 

innocent  creature  whom  she  thought  never  to  behold 
again.  But  while  striving  with  the  impulse,  she  saw 
one  of  the  barons  respectfully  take  the  bridle  of  Mar 
garet's  horse,  and,  turning  about,  lead  him  round  the 
angle  of  the  street  they  were  about  to  enter ;  while 
the  princess,  drooping  and  manifestly  in  tears,  drew 
her  veil  over  her  face,  and  in  that  sad  guise  disap 
peared  from  the  straining  gaze  of.  Joanna.  No  ac 
clamations  now  rose  on  the  air  ;  the  stillness  of  uni 
versal  sympathy  pervaded  the  multitude  ;  and  Joanna 
stood  mechanically  watching  the  train  as  the  knights 
rode  two  and  two  out  of  the  square,  until  the  last 
had  turned  the  comer.  The  people  crowded  silently 
after,  till  not  a  human  being  was  left  in  the  vast 
space,  save  the  lame  beggars  that  lay  in  the  porti 
cos.  The  tramp  of  innumerable  feet  died  away  in 
the  distance,  and  all  was  quiet  and  solitary ;  not  even 
the  footstep  of  an  attendant  was  to  be  heard  wander 
ing  through  the  palace  ;  and  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  checkered  as  it  had  been  with  many  woes,  Joan 
na's  heart  died  within  her,  with  a  lonely  and  forsaken 
feeling.  "  They  are  gone,  —  they  are  gone  !  "  is  the 
idea  that  takes  complete  possession  of  the  mind,  when 
the  young,  gay,  and  beloved  pass  from  our  abodes. 
To  Joanna,  full  as  her  mind  was  of  the  gloomiest 
anticipations,  the  hush  which  prevailed  in  the  pal 
ace,  after  the  bustle  of  departure,  had  in  it  some 
thing  awful  and  deathlike  ;  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  a 
funeral  procession  had  left  her  gates. 

In  the  mean  time  Margaret  passed  on  through  the 

16 


182  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

fairy  regions  which  encircle  the  city  of  Naples ;  and 
upon  her  was  not  lost  the  fresh  matin  beauty  of  its 
matchless  scenery.  Her  eye  caught  with  pleasure 
the  innumerable  fishing-boats,  gliding  almost  imper 
ceptibly  over  the  mirror-like  surface,  scarce  rocking 
as  they  went,  and  distinctly  reflected,  with  their 
snowy  sails,  in  the  water.  The  faint  night-mist, 
which  yet  lingered  at  a  distance,  half  veiled  the  isl 
ands,  which  rose  looming  from  it  like  remote  moun 
tains  ;  and  over  Posilipo  hung  the  thin,  cloud-like, 
waning  moon,  still  visible,  though  the  sun  was  con 
siderably  above  the  horizon.  Absorbed  in  medita 
tions,  half  sad  and  half  pleasing,  she  gave  no  en 
couragement  to  conversation  ;  but  after  they  left  these 
familiar  objects  behind  them,  and  wound  through 
vineyards  and  orange  groves,  she  felt  one  pang  more 
in  exchanging  the  gay  escort  from  the  court  of  Joan 
na  for  that  of  her  husband's  rude  and  warlike  band. 
With  all  graceful  courtesy  she  bade  adieu  to  the 
proud  nobles,  as  one  by  one  they  passed  before  her, 
bending  to  the  saddlebow  with  their  helmeted  heads  ; 
and  as  she  saw  them  put  spurs  to  their  steeds,  fall 
again  into  ranks,  and  sweep  back  along  the  road  to 
Naples,  soon  lost  among  the  foliage,  she  turned  a 
doubtful  glance  on  the  warriors  that  surrounded  her. 
It  was  a  detachment  of  his  most  tried  and  faithful 
cavalry  whom  Charles  had  sent  to  bring  her  into  the 
distant  plains  of  Lombardy,  whither  he  had  prom 
ised  to  descend  and  meet  her  ;  and  the  perfect  train 
ing  of  their  steeds,  the  war-worn  condition  of  their 


JOANNA    OF   NAPLES.  183 

armour,  and  their  scarred  visages,  bore  testimony  that 
they  had  been  engaged  in  no  holiday  service.  Mar 
garet  resigned  herself  to  their  protection,  with  a  feel 
ing  of  confidence  and  security,  inspired  by  the  bare 
idea  that  they  were  her  husband's  soldiers,  —  that 
the  familiar  banner  which  flaunted  above  them  was 
his,  —  that  they  had  fought  by  his  side,  and  were  by 
him  trusted  with  a  most  precious  charge. 

The  day  passed  away  without  event,  excepting 
that,  as  they  approached  A  versa,  her  attention  was 
fixed  on  the  gray  walls  of  a  convent,  rising  above 
the  trees,  on  the  brow  of  a  wooded  hill.  There  was 
nothing  peculiar  in  the  object,  so  similar  to  many 
others  along  their  winding  way  ;  but  she  saw  an 
elderly  knight  of  the  party  pointing  it  out  to  his 
companion  with  a  frowning  brow ;  and  as  they  rode 
closer  together,  and  fell  into  a  low,  eager  conversa 
tion,  still  occasionally  looking  towards  it  with  aus 
tere  countenances,  she  felt  assured  that  it  had  been 
the  scene  of  some  dreadful  calamity,  — perhaps  crime. 
Curiosity  at  last  prompted  ber  to  approach  them  to 
inquire  its  history;  when  the  name  of  "Andrea" 
fell  on  her  ear.  Horror-struck  at  the  sound,  she  drew 
back  in  silence  ;  arid  shuddered  as  she  again  fixed 
her  eyes  on  those  gloomy  walls,  within  whose  cir 
cuit  that  prince  —  the  youthful  husband  of  Joanna 
in  her  early  and  happy  days  —  had  been  so  foully 
and  mysteriously  murdered.  She  knew  that,  at  the 
time,  dark  surmises  had  touched  the  character  of  Jo 
anna  ;  but  she  believed  that  her  triumphant  acquittal 


184  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

had  promptly  cleared  her  fame,  and  that  her  spotless 
course  had  since  lived  down  all  suspicion.  She  knew 
not  that  the  delicate  texture  of  a  woman's  reputation 
retains  a  tinge  for  ever,  where  calumny  has  once 
fallen  ;  she  knew  not  the  existence  of  those  unchar 
itable  spirits,  whose  delight  it  is  to  believe  the  worst, 
—  who  cannot  forget  that  evil  was  once  spoken,  and 
will  not  suffer  oblivion  to  gather  round  the  cruel  and 
idle  slanders  of  bygone  days.  She  little  dreamed 
that  the  character  of  the  pure  and  lofty  Joanna,  the 
kinswoman  whose  virtues  she  loved  and  reverenced 
so  deeply,  was  to  be  handed  down  to  posterity,  a 
problem  for  the  discussion  of  the  antiquarian,  a  dis 
puted  point  among  the  searchers  into  the  dark  things 
of  history  ;  and  that  thousands  would  live  and  die 
under  the  impression,  that,  early  ripe  in  guilt  as  in 
talents,  she  had  stained  her  soul,  as  she  trod  life's 
threshold,  with  a  murder  of  peculiar  atrocity.* 

We  will  not  trace  the  route  of  Margaret  as  she 
pressed  on  to  a  reunion  with  her  husband.     Impa- 


*  "  Public  rumors,  in  the  absence  of  notorious  proof,  imputed  the 
guilt  of  this  mysterious  assassination  to  Joanna.  Whether  historians 
are  authorized  to  assume  her  participation  in  it  so  confidently  as  they 
have  generally  done,  may  perhaps  be  doubted  ;  though  I  cannot  ven 
ture  positively  to  rescind  their  sentence." — "The  name  of  Joan  of 
Naples  has  suffered  by  the  lax  repetition  of  calumnies.  Whatever 
share  she  may  have  had  in  her  husband's  death,  and  certainly  under 
circumstances  of  extenuation,  her  subsequent  life  was  not  open  to  any 
flagrant  reproach  ;  the  charge  of  dissolute  manners,  so  frequently 
made,  is  not  warranted  by  any  specific  proof  or  contemporary  testirnO' 
ny."  —  HALLAM'S  Middle  tfges,  Part  II.  Ch.  iii. 


JOANNA    OF   NAPLES.  185 

tient  of  delay,  she  could  not  be  detained  by  invita 
tions  or  proffered  civilities  from  the  court  of  Rome. 
Detesting  the  character  of  the  tyrannical  Urban,  of 
whom  Gibbon  remarks  that  "  he  could  walk  in  his 
garden  reading  his  breviary,  while  hearing  the  cries 
of  six  cardinals  upon  the  rack  in  an  adjacent  room," 
she  shrunk  from  the  Vatican  as  from  the  den  of  a 
wild  beast,  and  pursued  her  northward  journey  with 
as  much  celerity  as  possible  for  a  train  of  females 
and  children  unaccustomed  to  fatigue.  At  one  spot 
the  Baron  di  Castiglione  pointed  out  two  routes,  one 
of  which  led  winding  through  plains  and  valleys, 
while  the  other,  though  far  more  rough  and  wild, 
would  conduct  them  more  speedily  through  moun 
tain  defiles  to  their  journey's  end,  and  on  this  she 
decided. 

It  was  towards  the  close  of  a  lovely  summer's  day 
that  the  little  troop  descended,  along  a  thickly  wood 
ed  mountain  road,  into  a  rocky  pass.  The  cliffs  rose 
high  above  them  on  each  side,  garlanded  in  spots 
with  rough  grass  and  tangled  weeds,  while  here  and 
there  the  larch  and  the  pine  sprang  from  the  clefts, 
and  partially  clothed  the  gray,  eternal  rocks  with  their 
sombre  verdure.  On  the  right,  a  torrent  came  dash 
ing  from  the  recesses  of  the  hills,  and,  with  a  perpen 
dicular  fall  of  some  twenty  feet,  formed  a  deep  basin, 
from  which  it  rippled  quietly  away  down  the  valley. 
Round  the  basin  was  spread  a  carpet  of  the  greenest 
and  softest  herbage  ;  and  its  waters  lay  dark  under 
the  shadow  of  an  enormous  oak  that  stood  on  its 

16* 


186  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

brink.  The  gnarled  roots  of  this  monarch  of  the 
dell  rose  above  the  turf,  or,  stretching  away  under  the 
still  water,  looked  like  sleeping  serpents.  The  spot 
had  an  aspect  so  cool  and  tranquil,  that  Margaret  was 
glad  when  sb.e  saw  the  Baron  give  a  signal  for  halt 
ing  ;  and  though  she  had  preferred  riding  on  horse 
back  since  noon,  that  she  might  enjoy  scenery  to 
her  so  new  and  picturesque,  yet,  weary  and  heated 
as  she  was,  it  was  a  luxury  to  spring  from  the  saddle 
upon  the  fresh  turf;  and,  throwing  back  her  veil,  she 
inhaled  the  bracing  mountain  air  with  delight.  As 
she  seated  herself  on  one  of  the  huge  twisted  roots 
by  the  basin,  the  children  came  rejoicing  to  her  side ; 
her  ladies  gathered  almost  under  the  spray  of  the  tor 
rent  to  enjoy  its  freshness  ;  the  warriors  dispersed 
themselves  in  groups  among  the  clefts  of  the  rocks, 
and  their  steeds  came  panting  to  drink  of  the  pool, 
or  strayed,  quietly  grazing,  down  the  little  valley. 
The  Baron  di  Castiglione,  having  despatched  a  sin 
gle  horseman  in  advance,  removed  the  helmet  from 
his  gray  locks,  and  summoning  his  favorite,  the  spir 
ited  boy,  to  his  knee,  established  himself  on  a  large 
fragment  of  rock,  which  had  fallen  from  the  cliffs 
above,  whence  he  could  command  a  view  of  the 
lower  entrance  into  the  pass.  In  a  short  time,  fa 
tigue  hushed  every  one  into  silence,  and  the  tranquil 
genius  of  the  place  seemed  to  have  resumed  his  sway. 
The  little  Margaret  laid  her  curly  locks  upon  her 
mother's  lap,  and,  soothed  by  the  continuous  dashing 
of  the  waterfall,  sunk  into  a  profound  slumber  ;  and 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  187 

the  wild  goats  came  to  the  edges  of  the  rocks,  looked 
down  at  the  peaceable  intruders  a  few  moments  in 
surprise,  and  then  bounded  away  to  their  heights. 

As  Margaret  sat  enjoying  it  all  with  the  keen  zest 
of  one  who,  having  a  true  taste  for  nature,  had  es 
caped  to  her  wildest  haunts  from  the  irksome  monot 
ony  of  a  palace,  she  gazed  upwards  to  the  deep  blue 
sky,  of  which  so  narrow  a  space  was  visible,  with 
an  unwonted  admiration  of  its  purity  ;  when  sud 
denly,  from  the  summit  of  the  loftiest  precipice  in 
view,  a  large,  stately  bird  rose  upon  the  wing,  and 
soared  away  with  many  a  majestic  sweep.  She 
needed  no  one  to  tell  her  it  was  the  mountain  eagle  ; 
she  almost  fancied  she  heard  the  rush  of  his  mighty 
wings,  as  he  sprang  forth  on  the  breeze,  and  follow 
ing  him  with  an  intense  gaze,  as  he  diminished  to  a 
seeming  speck  and  vanished  in  the  realms  of  upper 
air,  she  was  unconscious  of  a  commotion  among  the 
recumbent  knights  about  her.  When  her  strained 
eyes  again  rested  on  earth,  she  perceived  that  most 
of  them  had  risen,  and  were  looking  towards  the 
lower  part  of  the  defile.  The  Baron  di  Castiglione, 
too,  had  turned  in  the  same  direction,  with  the  air  of 
one  listening  intently  ;  and  presently  a  sound,  as  of 
horsemen  ascending  the  rocky  pass  at  full  speed, 
came  upon  her  ear.  The  idea  of  an  attack  from 
banditti  flashed  across  her  mind,  as  she  cast  a  hur 
ried  glance  about  the  wild,  secluded  spot;  and  rising, 
she  clasped  her  little  girl  to  her  bosom,  and,  advanc 
ing  to  the  side  of  the  Baron,  stood  in  the  centre  of 


188  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

the  grass  plat.  In  another  moment,  two  knights, 
mounted  on  black  steeds,  came  rapidly  into  the  pass, 
and  on  seeing  the  group  before  them,  reined  up  sud 
denly  and  respectfully,  remaining  motionless  in  their 
saddles.  The  next  instant  a  third  knight  came  dash 
ing  between  them,  on  a  superb  white  charger,  glit 
tering,  like  his  master,  with  steel  and  gold  ;  and  as 
the  princely  figure  galloped  almost  to  her  side,  threw 
himself  to  the  ground,  and  raised  the  vizor  from  his 
noble  countenance,  Margaret  recognized  her  long-ab 
sent  husband,  Charles  of  Durazzo  ! 

When  the  first  joy  of  meeting  his  wife  and  chil 
dren  was  over,  Charles  turned  to  the  Baron,  and  ex 
claimed  hastily,  "  You  have  surprised  me  much. 
When  your  messenger  came  but  now  to  tell  me  the 
princess  was  here,  I  could  scarce  credit  my  ears. 
Why  tarried  you  not  in  Rome  ?  " 

"  I  had  no  such  orders." 

"  What !  have  you  met  no  couriers  ?  I  sent  two, 
with  injunctions  that,  if  you  had  left  the  city,  you 
should  forthwith  return  thither,  and  await  me." 

"  They  have  missed  us,  then,"  said  the  Baron ;  — 
"  it  was  the  princess's  pleasure  to  take  the  shorter 
road  through  the  hills,  and  they,  no  doubt,  expected 
to  meet  us  in  the  plains." 

"  It  is  unfortunate,"  said  the  prince  ;  "  I  did  not 
mean  to  welcome  my  wife  to  my  canvas  walls  and 
rough  camp  fare,  when  Rome  has  so  many  stately 
palaces  whose  gilded  doors  would  fly  open  to  re 
ceive  her." 


JOANNA   OF  NAPLES.  189 

"  I  should  better  love  the  humblest  tent  under 
your  banner,"  whispered  Margaret,  "  than  the  proud 
est  palace  in  that  city." 

Charles  smiled  upon  her  kindly,  and  laying  his 
gauntleted  hand  on  the  head  of  his  boy,  who,  lost  in 
admiration,  stood  gazing  up  in  his  face,  he  added, 
"  And  here,  too,  is  one  who  will  love  a  soldier's 
straw  pallet  better  than  the  silken  pillows  of  Naples ! 
To  the  camp,  then,  Baron  ;  we  will  give  these  fair 
ladies  as  little  cause  as  may  be  to  repent  their  long 
journey,  and  they  shall  look  upon  a  sight  that  may 
repay  no  small  fatigue.  They  shall  behold  an  army 
that  a  prince  may  be  proud  to  lead." 

It  was  now  by  the  side  of  her  husband,  listening 
to  his  cheerful  voice,  and  feeling  that  his  guardian 
hand  was  on  her  palfrey's  bridle,  that  Margaret  re 
sumed  her  route,  forgetting  in  the  happiness  of  the 
moment  that  such  a  thing  as  doubt,  fear,  or  sorrow 
existed.  The  Baron  di  Castiglione  rode  near  them, 
and  to  him  Charles  addressed  much  of  his  conversa 
tion,  respecting  the  state  of  his  troops,  and  the  Ve 
netian  wars.  In  less  than  half  an  hour  they  emerged 
from  the  rocks  and  trees  of  the  mountainous  coun 
try,  and  as  they  issued  from  the  forest  upon  the  brow 
of  a  hill,  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  extended  a  noble 
spectacle  indeed.  The  champaign  below  them  was 
green  as  an  emerald,  with  many  rills  winding  and 
glittering  through  the  meadows ;  and  everywhere 
were  scattered  the  white  tents  of  an  extended  camp. 
By  the  brook-sides,  in  the  fields,  among  the  groves, 


190  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

the  long  lines  stretched  away  to  the  right  and  left, 
distinctly  visible  by  the  light  that  yet  came  from  the 
glowing  west,  where  the  sun  had  just  sunk  below 
the  horizon.  The  shadows  of  twilight  had  indeed 
begun  to  gather  over  some  of  the  deepest  dells  ;  but 
on  their  right,  along  the  whole  eastern  horizon,  glim 
mered  a  range  of  cloud-like  forms,  the  summits  of 
snow-topped  mountains,  gilded  by  the  beams  of  that 
sun  which  to  the  lower  country  had  already  set. 
Almost  breathless  with  admiration,  Margaret  uttered 
an  exclamation,  which  induced  her  husband  to  pause 
indulgently  a  few  moments  that  she  might  enjoy  the 
scene  ;  and  she  could  scarcely  help  sighing,  when, 
as  they  trotted  slowly  down  the  green  slope,  the 
groves  that  soon  overshadowed  them  shut  the  whole 
from  her  view. 

New  cause  of  wonder,  however,  arose  as  they  en 
tered  the  city  of  tents,  where  the  cleanliness,  order, 
and  stillness  that  prevailed  spoke  well  for  the  disci 
pline  of  Charles's  boasted  army.  Received  with  mil 
itary  honors  at  the  lines,  the  little  cavalcade  was  con 
ducted  through  a  long,  wide  street  of  tents,  at  the 
termination  of  which  an  illuminated  pavilion  glim 
mered  through  the  closing  dusk ;  and  here  the  weary 
Margaret  dismounted.  Every  possible  arrangement 
had  been  hastily  made  for  her  comfort ;  she  sunk  ex 
hausted  upon  the  soft  cushions,  piled  up  for  her 
couch  ;  but  though  refreshments  were  brought  her, 
the  fever,  induced  by  fatigue  and  over-excitement, 
began  to  burn  on  her  cheeks  and  throb  in  her  pulse. 


JOANNA    OF   NAPLES.  191 

Charles,  in  alarm,  summoned  the  most  experienced 
of  her  attendants,  who  prescribed  rest  and  quiet  ;  he 
passed  softly  from  the  pavilion,  gave  orders  for  pro 
found  stillness  throughout  the  camp,  and  retired  to  an 
humbler  tent  in  her  vicinity.  Even  the  sentinel  at 
her  door  remained  motionless  at  his  post,  lest  his 
footfall  should  disturb  her  slumbers  ;  and  long  ere 
the  usual,  hour,  a  midnight  hush  was  upon  those 
thousands  of  living  and  active  human  beings. 


CHAPTER    III. 

UNWONTED  noises  roused  the  princess  early  the 
next  morning,  but  she  awoke  completely  refreshed 
and  restored ;  and  for  a  while,  ere  she  summoned  her 
attendants,  lay  endeavouring  to  collect  her  scattered 
ideas.  As  the  events  of  the  preceding  day  floated 
through  her  mind,  a  painful  thought  suddenly  struck 
her ;  and  the  more  she  reflected  upon  it,  the  more  she 
wondered  that,  in  spite  of  her  fatigue  and  indisposi 
tion,  it  had  not  occurred  to  her  before.  Not  a  word 
of  inquiry  respecting  the  queen  had  escaped  the  lips 
of  Charles  !  He  had  shown  no  solicitude  to  hear  of 
her  health  or  her  occupations ;  he  had  not  mentioned 
her  nor  alluded  to  her.  In  vain  Margaret  strove  to 
bring  to  mind  some  hasty  question,  some  one  word 
of  loving  recollection ;  in  vain  she  tried  to  extenuate 


192  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

such  seeming  want  of  interest  in  his  noble  benefac 
tress,  —  to  fancy  that  the  joy  of  meeting  his  wife 
and  children,  or  that  military  cares,  might  have  occa 
sioned  a  brief  forgetfulness  of  what  was  neverthe 
less  near  his  heart.  Uncomfortable  and  perturbed, 
she  rose  betimes,  and  when  the  duties  of  her  toilette 
were  completed,  sent  a  page  to  answer  the  inquiries 
which  a  messenger  from  Charles  had  already  ad 
dressed  to  her  women.  The  prince  was  then  occu 
pied  among  his  officers  ;  but  she  soon  heard  his  joc 
und  voice  at  the  door  of  her  tent,  and,  dismissing  her 
attendants,  she  hastened  to  meet  him.  He  was  al 
ready  armed  and  prepared  for  the  saddle  ;  and  joy 
fully  observing  the  restored  bloom  on  her  cheek,  he 
drew  her  forth,  saying,  —  "  Come  out,  my  wife,  and 
look  at  this  stirring  sight." 

It  was  so,  indeed.  The  knoll  on  which  her  pavilion 
stood  commanded  a  view  of  a  large  portion  of  the 
camp  ;  but  wherever  she  turned  her  eyes,  it  dropped 
at  once  from  her  sight,  and  in  an  instant  the  whole 
aspect  of  the  field  was  changed,  as  if  by  magic.  In 
the  distance,  towards  the  south,  the  arms  of  the  de 
parting  troops  were  seen  gleaming  through  the  trees 
as  they  ascended  the  hills  which  bounded  the  plain  ; 
arid  a  large  body  of  cavalry  stood  waiting  at  a  short 
distance.  As  she  came  forth  from  the  pavilion,  the 
war-horse  of  Charles  was  led  up  by  two  grooms, 
who  could  with  difficulty  restrain  the  ardor  of  the 
noble  animal,  tossing  his  head  and  rearing  under 
their  grasp.  His  eye  glanced  fire  as  he  heard  the 


JOANXA    OP   NAPLES.  193 

well-known  voice  of  his  accustomed  rider  in  the 
battle-field  ;  but  Charles  hastily  bade  the  men  take 
him  away.  "  I  shall  not  ride  Caesar  upon  the  march," 
said  he  ;  "  I  shall  want  him  fresh  for  service.  Bring 
me  the  Black  Prince." 

"  That  was  the  name  our  mother  taught  you  to 
reverence.  The  brave  English  warrior  befriended 
James  of  Minorca,  and  she  never  forgot  it,"  said  Mar 
garet,  scarce  daring  to  look  in  her  husband's  face  as 
she  ventured  this  remark. 

He  winced,  however,  for  she  felt  a  sudden  slight 
motion  of  the  arm  on  which  she  leaned  ;  but,  without 
apparently  having  heard  her,  he  exclaimed,  —  "  You 
will  call  me  no  true  knight,  Margaret,  for  deserting 
you  as  soon  as  you  place  yourself  under  my  protec 
tion  ;  but  there  are  leaders  among  my  troops,  with 
whom  it  is  necessary  I  should  hold  constant  collo 
quy,  and  business  at  present  demands  every  moment 
of  my  waking  time.  It  will  be  better,  therefore,  that 
the  good  Baron  di  Castiglione  resume  his  office,  and 
guide  you  back  through  the  hills  again  to  Rome, 
while  I  march  to  the  same  point  along  the  plains." 
Observing  the  tears  gathering  in  Margaret's  eyes,  he 
added,  —  "  I  must  needs  head  my  troops,  dearest  ; 
and  it  will  be  safer,  pleasanter,  and  more  fitting,  that 
you  travel  under  a  selected  escort,  than  in  company 
with  my  rough  soldiery.  In  Rome  we  shall  meet." 

"  It  is  hard  to  part  again  so  soon,"  said  Margaret, 
"  but  that  is  not  all  that  disappoints  me.  I  had 
something  to  say  to  you,  Charles." 

17 


194  JOANNA    OF   NAPLES. 

"  And  can  you  not  say  it  briefly  ?  or  is  not  that 
a  woman's  talent  ?  "  asked  the  prince  gayly  ;  "  my 
body-guard  shall  wait,  then,  a  little  for  me  ;  we  will 
dash  the  faster  through  the  dew,  and  overtake  yon 
creeping  infantry  in  marvellous  short  space.  What 
little  harangue  have  you  prepared  that  makes  you 
so  pale  ?  Surely  there  can  be  no  boon  which  you 
dare  not  ask  of  rne." 

"  I  have  no  boon  to  ask,"  said  Margaret,  trem 
bling  ;  "  but  do  you  know,  Charles,  it  seems  to  me 
strange  that  you  have  not  inquired  after  the  queen  !  " 

The  prince  colored  to  the  temples.  "  Have  I  not 
indeed  ?  Is  it  possible  ?  "  said  he.  "  But  you  know 
I  have  scarce  had  time  ;  you  were  ill  last  night  j  in 
fact,  we  have  hardly  met  as  yet.  She  is  well,  is 
she  not  ?  " 

"  Ah,  Charles,"  exclaimed  Margaret,  "  our  mother 
would  not  thus  have  asked  tidings  of  you  !  It  is  of 
you  she  thinks  night  and  day  ;  her  absent  husband, 
dearly  as  she  loves  him,  is  not  more  constantly  pres 
ent  to  her  thoughts,  and  the  color  comes  proudly  to 
her  cheek  when  she  hears  you  praised,  as  if  you  had 
indeed  drawn  your  very  existence  from  her  !  Could 
you  but  have  seen  her  when  the  false  rumor  came 
that  you  were  slain  in  battle  !  She  did  not  strive  to 
soothe  my  anguish,  for  she  shared  it.  Pale  as  mar 
ble,  speechless  as  a  statue,  she  sat  hours  by  my 
couch,  with  the  tears  trickling  down  her  cheeks, 
save  when  she  laid  her  head  on  my  pillow  to  mingle 
her  groans  and  sobs  with  mine.  O  my  husband  ! 


JOANNA    OF   NAPLES.  195 

to  think  an  orphan  boy  like  you  should  have  found 
maternal  tenderness  so  fond,  and  in  so  noble  a  be 
ing  !  ". 

Charles  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  ground  ;  but  Marga 
ret  waited  in  vain  for  a  word.  "  How  often  I  have 
longed  to  tell  you  of  her  devotion  to  your  children,  — 
how  she  trains  up  your  son  to  look  upon  his  father 
as  the  model  of  all  things  heroic  and  excellent,  — how 
she  bids  him  be  as  brave  in  the  field,  as  wise  in  the 
council-chamber,  as  generous  to  the  unfortunate,  as 
true  to  those  he  loves  !  " 

The  prince  started  impatiently.  "  The  sun  grows 
hot,  Margaret,"  said  he  j  "  you  were  better  in  the 
shade." 

"  Then  come  in  with  me,"  urged  Margaret,  hold 
ing  him  pleadingly  by  the  hand  ;  "  think  how  long 
it  is  since  we  have  talked  together,  and  how  full  my 
heart  must  be  !  Surely,  if  we  are  not  to  travel  in 
company,  you  will  not  begrudge  me  one  half-hour 
before  you  set  out !  "  Margaret's  was  the  face  on 
which  entreaty  sits  irresistible,  and  as  her  beseech 
ing  eyes  were  fixed  on  him,  he  looked  irresolute, 
yielded,  and  reentered  the  tent.  "  Now  tell  me, 
dearest,"  said  she,  striving  to  lift  the  heavy  helmet 
from  his  head,  "  when  will  you  quit  these  weary 
wars  ?  Your  face  is  homewards  now  ;  are  you  not 
coming  home  to  live  tranquil  and  happy  with  us 
once  more  ?  I  am  afraid  you  will  be  spoiled,  Charles, 
and  forget  mother,  wife,  and  children." 

"  That  cannot  be  !  "  exclaimed  the  prince  with 
energy,  "  I  have  the  heart  of  a  man  still !  " 


196  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

"  I  believe  it,  Charles,  —  I  believe  it  from  the  bot 
tom  of  my  soul !  and  no  black  calumny  shall  ever 
make  me  doubt  your  truth  and  fidelity,"  added  Mar 
garet,  clasping  her  hands,  as  a  bright  look  of  confi 
dence  beamed  over  her  face. 

"  Why,"  said  the  prince,  with  a  look  of  some  per 
plexity,  "  why  such  an  asseveration  ?  " 

"  O  Charles  !  "  replied  she,  "  I  hardly  dare  tell 
you  why.  It  has  been  upon  my  lips  all  this  time, 
but  I  have  not  dared  utter  it.  They  have  slandered 
you,  my  husband ;  I  know  not  who  ;  but  enemies 
of  your  fame  have  whispered  the  darkest  insinua 
tions  against  you  ;  they  have  charged  you  with  the 
blackest  of  crimes,  —  ingratitude  !  They  have  striv 
en  to  make  the  noble  Joanna  herself  believe  you  for 
getful  of  the  deepest  and  tenderest  obligations  that 
could  bind  man  to  a  fellow-creature,  —  false,  even 
to  her,  the  mother  of  your  desolate  childhood." 

The  prince  started  up  impetuously,  and  as  he 
walked  about  the  tent,  the  veins  in  his  forehead 
swelled  with  agitation.  "  Who  has  done  this?  "  ex 
claimed  he  ;  "  whence  came  these  tales  ?  " 

"  I  know  not,"  said  Margaret  ;  "  I  asked  not ;  it 
was  enough  for  me  to  declare  them  false  ;  and  I 
would  have  died  in  the  cause,  had  it  been  needful. 
They  say  that  base,  intriguing  spirits  abound  in 
courts  ;  but  I  thought  that  you,  dearest,  stood  above 
suspicion,  as  above  temptation.  It  was  from  the 
queen's  own  lips  I  heard  the  tale." 

"  And  yet  she  dismissed  you  safely  and  honorably 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  197 

from  her  court !  Did  she  make  no  effort  to  retain 
you,  —  nor  my  children,  —  as  pledges  of  my  faith  ? 
Then  she  doubts  me  not,  noble,  generous,  angelic 
being  that  she  is  !  " 

Margaret  burst  into  tears.  "  O  Charles !  "  she  ejac 
ulated,  "  could  she  but  hear  you !  Come  back  to 
Naples  with  me,  my  husband  ;  what  need  you  of 
these  troops  ?  Leave  them  behind,  and  hasten  with 
me  to  look  once  more  on  her  beloved  and  beautiful 
face.  Come  to  receive  those  benignant  smiles  with 
which  she  always  welcomed  you ;  the  holy  blessing, 
which  you  used  to  say  kept  all  wickedness  away 
from  you.  Next  week  will  be  the  anniversary  of 
our  wedding  day  ;  let  us  keep  it  in  the  palace  where 
she  smiled  upon  our  childish  affection, — where  she 
herself  bade  me  love  you  till  my  dying  day." 

Charles  was  deeply  moved  ;  a  tear  even  rolled 
down  his  manly  cheek,  as  he  looked  upon  the  fair 
creature  who  clung  to  him.  "  I  am,  indeed,  bound 
by  the  heart-strings  to  her  who  bestowed  on  me 
such  a  wife,  were  there  no  other  tie,"  said  he,  in  a 
low,  sad  tone,  as  if  musing  aloud.  At  that  moment 
the  curtained  door  of  the  tent  was  slowly  drawn 
back,  and  the  prince  looked  up  sternly,  as  if  indig 
nant  at  the  intrusion  ;  but  on  seeing  the  person  who 
stood  there  in  silence,  he  changed  countenance,  and 
hastily  disengaging  himself  from  his  wife,  he  seized 
his  helmet  from  the  cushion,  replaced  it  on  his  brow, 
and  left  the  tent  with  the  stranger,  without  uttering 
another  word. 

17* 


198  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

Margaret  remained  immovable  with  surprise.  As 
he  stood  with  his  back  to  the  light,  she  had  but  faint 
ly  distinguished  the  face  of  the  unbidden  guest,  —  a 
tall  monk,  with  a  downcast  eye  and  colorless  cheek  ; 
but  the  sudden  paleness  and  abrupt  departure  of  her 
husband  left  her  completely  bewildered.  Ere  she 
had  recovered  from  her  amazement,  the  grotmfT  be 
neath  her  feet  shook  with  the  tread  of  a  large  body 
of  horse,  sweeping  by  at  full  speed  ;  and  in  a  mo 
ment  more  a  page  appeared,  to  announce  that  the 
Baron  di  Castiglione  waited  her  orders.  She  hurried 
to  look  forth.  The  camp  had  entirely  disappeared  ;  a 
few  heavy  wagons  were  moving  slowly  from  the 
field  ;  her  own  small  band  were  already  mounting, 
and  at  a  short  distance  she  perceived  the  party  which 
had  just  passed  galloping  towards  the  hills.  At  their 
head  she  easily  recognized  the  stately  form  of  Du- 
razzo,  and  by  his  side  rode  the  monk.  Slowly 
and  sadly  she  withdrew,  and  as  her  women  crowd 
ed  into  the  tent  to  assist  in  the  bustle  of  depart 
ure,  she  was  unconscious  of  the  dismay  her  aspect 
excited. 

If  the  journey  to  meet  her  husband  had  appeared 
long  to  Margaret,  the  same  route  retraced  was  intol 
erably  tedious.  Surprise  at  his  demeanour,  a  vague 
anxiety,  impatience  to  be  once  more  in  his  presence, 
where  she  still  felt  as  if  all  doubt  and  fear  must  be 
dispelled,  took  from  her  the  power  of  enjoying  either 
the  conversation  of  her  companions  or  the  beauty  of 
the  scenery  through  which  they  passed.  To  find 


JOANNA    OF   NAPLES.  199 

herself  in  Rome,  little  as  she  cared  for  its  Papal  hon 
ors,  was  now  the  earnest  object  of  her  wishes  ;  and 
on  her  last  day's  journey,  as  they  ascended  each  hill, 
she  gazed  anxiously  forward,  in  hopes  of  catching  a 
distant  glimpse  of  that  city  whose  fame  was  bruited 
over  the  world,  and  whose  power  lay  on  the  invisi 
ble  spirit  of  man.  She  dreamed  not,  however,  that 
this  mysterious  power  was  yet  to  crush  her  best 
hopes  of  happiness  ;  that  the  influence  of  the  tiara 
was  to  blight  the  remainder  of  a  life  hitherto  so 
free  from  bitterness.  Still  less  did  she  dream  of 
the  sad  entrance  she  should  make  into  its  renowned 
streets. 

The  noontide  halt  was  over,  and  the  Baron  had 
just  given  her  the  welcome  assurance,  that  in  four 
hours  she  would  be  within  the  walls  of  the  Eternal 
City,  when  one  of  the  children's  attendants  came, 
with  an  anxious  brow,  to  announce  that  the  little  Jo 
anna  was  ill.  The  princess  hastened  to  her  in  alarm, 
and  found  the  child  reclining  on  the  shoulder  of  her 
nurse,  the  rose  color  on  her  cheek  heightened  to  a 
feverish  scarlet,  and  her  eyes  dull  and  glazed.  She 
stretched  her  arms  to  her  mother  with  a  faint  moan. 
Margaret  took  her  at  once,  and  on  applying  to  her 
attendants,  found,  to  her  dismay,  that  none  knew 
what  remedy  to  prescribe,  or  by  what  form  of  mal 
ady  the  patient  was  attacked.  Nay,  some  of  the 
more  timid  shrunk  to  a  distance,  and  her  quick  ear 
caught  the  fearful  word  "  contagion  "  among  their 
stifled  whispers.  Clasping  the  little  girl  to  her  bosom, 


200  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

she  ascended  the  litter,  and  crying  to  the  Baron, 
"  Rome  !  Rome  !  —  with  all  speed  to  Rome  !  "  she 
sat  in  speechless  suspense.  Her  children  had  been 
blessed  from  birth  with  unusual  health,  and  utterly 
inexperienced  as  she  was  in  the  symptoms  or  man 
agement  of  disease,  her  emotions,  on  witnessing  the 
sufferings  she  could  not  relieve,  were  almost  agoniz 
ing.  On  they  went,  with  a  speed  which  at  another 
time  would  have  been  unpleasing  ;  but  to  her  it 
seemed  as  if  they  crept  along  the  interminable  way ; 
and  to  her  incessant  inquiries,  "  How  far  yet  ? " 
the  answers  only  brought  disappointment.  At  last 
the  domes  of  the  city  rose  above  the  level  of  the 
Campagna,  along  the  dusky  horizon  ;  but  without  one 
throb  of  lofty  associations,  —  one  glance  at  the  ob 
jects  which  surrounded  them  as  they  drew  nearer  to 
the  Mistress  of  the  world,  —  Margaret  forgot  every 
thing  else  in  the  increasing  distress  of  her  child.  As 
the  shades  of  twilight  descended,  she  fancied  death 
already  painted  on  the  livid  features  she  discerned 
more  dimly  ;  and  was  at  last  hardly  conscious  that 
they  had  passed  the  Porta  del  Popolo,  when  they 
reached  the  threshold  of  a  magnificent  palace,  ap 
pointed  by  the  Pope  himself  for  her  reception. 

The  most  skilful  physicians  of  the  day  came  at 
her  summons.  It  was  discovered  that  the  little  girl 
had  hot  been  well  since  the  night  when  the  princess 
had  passed  almost  incognita  through  Rome,  in  her 
haste  to  join  her  husband  ;  and  that  the  building  in 
which  they  had  then  slept  stood  near  the  Lateran, 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  201 

recently  discovered  to  have  become  so  infected  by 
the  encroaching  malaria  of  the  marshes,  that,  during 
the  summer  months,  it  was  abandoned  to  the  insid 
ious  and  invisible  foe.  The  disease  which  had  at 
tacked  the  frame  of  the  little  Joanna  was  pronounced 
a  dangerous,  malignant  fever  ;  and  after  despatching 
a  messenger  to  hasten  her  husband,  still  on  the  march, 
Margaret  gave  herself  up  to  that  most  wearing,  yet  sa 
cred,  of  duties,  a  mother's  patient  midnight  watch 
ing  by  the  couch  of  her  suffering  child.  The  so 
licitations  of  her  attendants,  the  recollection  of  her 
rank,  the  danger  to  her  health,  —  nothing  could  coun 
teract  the  impulse  of  that  common  human  nature, 
throbbing  alike  in  the  heart  of  the  high  and  low  ; 
and  the  wife  of  the  poorest  peasant,  nursing  her 
squalid  babe  on  the  Pontine  fens,  could  scarcely 
have  envied  the  wealthy,  beautiful,  admired  princess 
of  Durazzo,  as  all  night  long  she  counted  the  weary 
hours,  listened  to  the  feeble  moans  of  her  child, 
held  the  draught  to  its  parched  lips,  and  laid  its  rest 
less  head  on  that  pillow,  which,  in  palace  or  cottage, 
is  ever  the  softest,  the  bosom  of  maternal  love. 


202  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

AFTER  the  departure  of  Margaret  from  Naples,  the 
melancholy  days  of  Joanna  crept  on,  unmarked  by 
any  event  distinct  from  the  usual  routine  of  her  life. 
In  the  regular  administration  of  her  queenly  duties, 
in  the  superintendence  of  many  benevolent  and  pub 
lic-spirited  works  which  she  had  undertaken,  in  pre 
siding  over  the  court,  which  her  own  virtue  and  dig 
nified  deportment  had  rendered  as  remarkable  for  re 
finement  as  for  magnificence,  she  sought  to  beguile 
the  secret  anxieties  of  her  heart.  Since  the  opening 
dawn  of  her  life  had  been  clouded  by  sorrows  most 
peculiar, — by  violent  deaths  or  unlocked  for  treach 
ery  among  her  dearest  friends,  —  she  had  ever  worn  an 
aspect  of  majestic  pensiveness  ;  and  the  open  smiles, 
which  had  forsaken  her  countenance  at  eighteen, 
had  never  returned  to  illumine  its  more  mature  beau 
ty.  Gentle  and  affable  in  her  demeanour,  however, 
her  habitual  gravity  did  not  banish  innocent  mirth 
from  those  about  her ;  and  she  was  loved,  almost  to 
adoration,  by  those  who  came  oftenest  about  her 
person.  Yet  none  were  admitted  completely  into 
her  confidence  ;  the  awe  inspired  by  her  rank  and 
character  was  never  dispelled  by  indiscreet  commu 
nicativeness  on  her  part  ;  and  not  one  of  her  most 
trusted  nobility  suspected  how  deeply  the  apprehen 
sion  of  coming  evils,  deadlier  than  all  she  had  yet 


JOANXA    OF    NAPLES.  203 

known,  was  now  haunting  her  hours  of  meditation. 
When  the  warlike  spirit  of  her  adopted  son  had  led 
him,  in  spite  of  her  remonstrances,  to  seek  distinc 
tion  under  the  king  of  Hungary,  once  her  bitter  foe, 
she  had  felt  the  want  of  a  masculine  mind  and  chiv- 
alric  arm  to  counsel  or  defend  her.  Driven  by 
necessity  once  more  to  form  connections  she  had 
abjured,  the  duties  which  Charles  had  forsaken  now 
devolved  on  a  husband  ;  and  the  unblemished,  disin 
terested  character  of  Prince  Otho  of  Brunswick,  suit 
able  to  her  in  age  and  accomplishments,  did  honor  to 
her  matronly  judgment.  It  is  of  him  that  the  grace 
ful  pen  of  Joanna's  female  biographer  writes  thus:  — 
"  Without  demanding  the  title  of  king,  or  arrogating 
any  power  to  himself,  this  generous,  brave,  and  ami 
able  man  won  and  deserved  the  entire  affection  of 
his  queen,  and  maintained  her  throne  for  some  time 
in  peace  and  security."  At  this  critical  juncture,  he 
was  absent  in  the  southern  part  of  his  dominions, 
where  some  symptoms  of  insurrection  among  the 
rough  mountaineers  of  Calabria  had  required  the 
check  of  his  personal  appearance.  So  vague  had 
been  the  rumors  which  had  reached  Joanna  of  the 
negotiations  between  Pope  Urban,  her  implacable 
enemy,  and  Charles,  her  adopted  son,  that  she  for 
bore  as  yet  to  molest  her  husband  with  intelligence 
which  she  shrunk  from  believing. 

She  returned  one  evening  from  an  excursion  to 
visit  the  palace  she  was  building  under  the  brow  of 
Posilipo.  The  romantic  beauty  of  its  situation, 


20-4  JOANNA  OF  NAPLES. 

where  its  very  foundations  were  laved  by  classic  bil 
lows,  had  not  been  overlooked  by  her  elegant  taste  ; 
and  while  anxious  to  give  occupation  to  the  artifi 
cers  whom  she  had  hitherto  employed  on  churches 
and  hospitals,  she  had  designed  it  as  a  calm  retreat 
for  her  declining  years.  In  the  present  state  of  her 
spirits,  she  looked  on  the  progress  of  the  workmen 
with  a  sadness  she  could  scarce  conceal.  Again  and 
again  she  cast  back  her  eyes,  as  she  rode  from  it, 
surrounded  by  a  gay  party  of  courtiers  ;  and  the 
question  forced  itself  continually  on  her  mind,  "  Will 
it  ever  be  completed  ?  Shall  I  live  to  tread  in  its 
fair  halls,  and  look  from  its  windows  over  these  blue 
waves  ?  Or  will  some  gloomy  blight  fall  yet  again 
across  my  path  ?  Will  my  plans  be  frustrated,  my 
spirits  broken,  my  ever  busy  mind  crushed  by  fresh 
sorrows  ?  Then  will  the  hand  of  the  workman 
cease,  the  sound  of  labor  be  hushed  ;  the  lonely  sea 
will  murmur  round  the  unfinished  walls,  the  fisher 
man  will  hang  his  nets  in  its  uncovered  vaults,  and 
the  musing  traveller  shall  pronounce  it  a  sad  me 
morial  of  the  uncertainties  that  wait  on  all  human 
schemes  !  " 

She  spurred  her  steed  forward  at  last,  to  escape 
these  melancholy  thoughts,  and  a  temporary  excite 
ment  revived  her  drooping  spirits,  as  she  sped  along 
the  delightful  Mergellina ;  the  fleet  Arabian  on  which 
she  was  mounted  dashed  over  the  firm,  wet  sands,  as 
if  with  a  consciousness  of  enjoyment ;  the  breeze, 
which  in  that  region  comes  down  from  the  hills  in 


JOAXXA    OF    NAPLES.  205 

the  afternoon,  played  with  its  bracing  influences  on 
her  frame,  and  her  whole  train  entered  with  zest  in 
to  that  most  exhilarating  pleasure,  a  gallop  along  a 
wide,  smooth  beach. 

When  she  arrived  at  the  private  apartments  of  her 
palace  in  Naples,  it  was  with  an  unwonted  glow  on 
her  cheek,  and  a  brightness  in  her  eye,  which  spoke 
of  her  earlier  and  happier  days.  "  My  ride  has  done 
me  much  service,"  she  said,  as  she  drew  off  her  silk 
en  glove,  embroidered  with  gold,  and  turned  to  her 
private  secretary,  who  waited  her  return  with  papers  ; 
"  and  now  I  think  these  dull  documents  will  not 
make  my  poor  head  ache  as  of  late."  She  took  a 
sealed  packet  from  his  hand,  as  he  said  something  of 
"  a  courier  from  Rome,"  changed  countenance  as  she 
looked  at  the  superscription,  broke  it  open  hastily, 
and,  casting  her  eyes  over  the  brief  contents,  dropped 
the  parchment,  staggered  a  few  paces,  and  fell,  as  if 
stunned,  upon  a  couch.  The  confusion  which  en 
sued  lasted  but  a  few  moments ;  the  alarm  had  hard 
ly  been  given  by  her  terrified  secretary,  when  the 
recovering  queen  roused  herself,  and  standing  up 
calmly,  though  the  late  brilliant  hue  of  her  complex 
ion  had  fled,  and  her  hand  convulsively  grasping  the 
back  of  a  chair,  she  bade  her  female  attendants  quit 
the  apartment  •  then  directing  the  secretary  to  leave 
writing  implements  on  the  table,  and  see  that  couri 
ers  were  in  readiness  to  set  out  for  Calabria,  she  dis 
missed  him  too.  Motionless  for  a  few  moments  after 
he  left  her,  she  gazed  on  the  fatal  packet  which  lay 

18 


206  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

on  the  floor,  as  if  it  had  been  a  scorpion,  and  then, 
slightly  spuming  it  with  her  foot,  she  murmured, 
"  Man's  vileness  I  may  scorn  !  when  God  deals  with 
me,  may  I  be  resigned !  "  Her  eyes  rose  devoutly 
to  heaven  as  she  turned  towards  the  table,  where 
she  seated  herself  and  leaned  her  head  upon  her 
hand.  Deep  was  the  abstraction  to  which  she  yield 
ed,  and  the  groans,  which  at  times  escaped  from  her, 
showed  how  severe  was  her  mental  anguish  ;  but 
she  at  last  seized  the  parchment,  and  with  a  trem 
bling,  but  practised  and  rapid  hand,  traced  the  fol 
lowing  epistle. 

"  My  good  and  well-beloved  husband  :  — 

"  The  blow  is  struck  !  the  throne  totters  beneath 
my  feet,  and  I  call  to  you  for  aid.  Charles  of  Du- 
razzo  claims  the  crown  of  Naples,  by  right  of  the 
Pope's  investiture  !  His  army  hovers  on  the  borders 
of  my  kingdom,  and  though  my  heart  be  pierced, 
I  will  yield  nothing  to  injustice  and  ingratitude. 
Tarry  not  among  the  banditti  of  the  mountains  ;  for 
bolder,  though  baser,  robbers  are  in  the  plains,  and 
will  soon  beset  the  gates  of  Naples." 

She  sealed  her  concise  summons,  despatched  it, 
and,  with  a  brow  full  of  lofty  determination,  descend 
ed  to  the  apartment  where  some  of  the  bravest  and 
wisest  among  her  nobility  awaited  her.  They  were 
thunderstruck  at  the  intelligence  she  had  to  commu 
nicate  ;  they  broke  forth  in  righteous  indignation  at 


JOANNA    OF  NAPLES.  207 

the  viper  she  had  cherished ;  and  she  alone  was  com 
posed  and  self-possessed.  She  was  forced  to  remind 
them  that  they  met  not  to  dwell  on  the  past,  but  to 
take  counsel  for  the  future ;  and  she  proceeded  to  set 
forth  her  resolution  to  resist  the  aggression  of  Duraz- 
zo,  sanctioned  at  it  was  by  Urban  himself.  A  spirit 
ed,  but  temperate  and  dignified,  reply  was  sent  to 
the  manifesto  of  Charles  ;  and  arrangements  were 
made  to  summon  aid  from  her  dominions  in  Prov 
ence,  and  to  have  the  city  in  a  posture  of  defence 
with  all  practicable  speed.  Each  baron,  as  he  left 
the  presence  of  his  queen,  vowed  fidelity  with  purse, 
sword,  and  heart's  blood,  to  her  person  and  rights. 
The  lamps  suspended  along  the  galleries  waned  in 
their  sockets,  as  Joanna  passed  to  her  stately  cham 
ber  ;  the  stars  waned  in  the  heavens  before  sleep  vis 
ited  her  aching  eyes. 


CHAPTER    V. 

WE  return,  for  a  short  space,  to  the  misguided 
Charles,  Prince  of  Durazzo.  He  had  left  his  wife 
abruptly,  at  the  head  of  a  strong  party  of  horse,  to 
overtake  the  main  body  of  his  troops,  marching 
steadily  south.  In  silence  he  rode  on  for  some  time, 
exchanging  not  a  word  with  his  immediate  compan 
ion,  —  a  monk,  whose  unusual  sallowness  of  com- 


208  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

plexion,  emaciation  of  figure,  and  austerity  of  aspect 
marked  him  as  one  who  strictly  observed  the  rules  of 
his  order.  The  black  robe  and  wide  sleeves  of  the 
Dominican  showed  him  to  be  a  member  of  that  pow 
erful  brotherhood,  whose  zeal  in  the  cause  of  Papal 
supremacy,  and  success  in  attaining  the  office  of  con 
fessors  to  kings  and  princes,  had  given  them  an  in 
fluence  over  the  destinies  of  men  as  unsuspected  as 
it  was  terrible.  It  was  in  this  unscriptural  and  un 
hallowed  relation  that  Father  Matteo  stood  toward 
the  young  prince  by  whose  side  he  rode  ;  the  keeper 
of  his  conscience,  the  master  of  his  secrets,  the  ruler 
of  a  towering  spirit,  which  thought  to  be  controlled 
by  no  earthly  power.  Without  an  effort  to  rouse 
Charles  from  his  unwonted  taciturnity,  without  the 
least  apparent  curiosity  as  to  its  cause,  he  kept  his 
large,  gloomy  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground  before  him, 
in  a  cold  abstraction,  which  contrasted  strongly  with 
the  erect  and  open  countenance  of  Durazzo,  on  whose 
features  worked  a  constant  succession  of  strong  emo 
tions.  More  than  once  the  prince  suddenly  drew  up, 
as  from  an  irresistible  impulse,  and  seemed  about  to 
accost  his  companion  ;  but  a  glance  at  that  stern, 
pale  face  appeared  to  have  the  power  of  checking  the 
half-uttered  remark,  and  muttering  an  ejaculation, 
he  drove  the  spurs  impatiently  into  his  steed,  forcing 
him  into  an  idle  caracole,  that  only  betrayed  the 
moodiness  of  his  master's  mind.  They  reached  at 
last  a  grove  of  chestnuts,  where  the  shade  of  those 
beautiful  trees  spread  like  an  awning  over  the  soft 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  209 

grass  ;  and  Charles,  as  if  his  resolution  were  taken, 
gave  some  directions  to  his  officers,  and  then,  making 
a  sign  to  the  monk  to  follow  him,  rode  away  among 
the  trees  on  their  left,  leaving  the  troops  to  pass  on 
without  them.  In  a  few  minutes  they  came  to  the 
brow  of  a  cliff,  and  looked  down  upon  a  little  quiet 
lake,  hidden  among  the  wooded  hills.  The  sun  was 
not  yet  high  enough  to  shine  on  its  smooth  surface, 
and  a  tranquillity  and  freshness  as  of  the  early  morn 
ing  lingered  on  its  shores.  No  human  habitation 
was  in  sight ;  but  on  a  promontory,  which  jutted  in 
to  the  water,  stood  the  ruins  of  a  small,  ancient  tem 
ple,  classically  graceful  in  its  proportions,  and  beauti 
ful  even  in  decay. 

In  this  still  seclusion  Charles  paused,  listened,  and 
looked  around  ;  the  heavy  tramp  of  his  troops  came 
sounding  indistinctly  along  the  ground,  the  squirrel 
chirped  as  he  leaped  among  the  branches  overhead, 
and  the  cry  of  the  heron  rose  from  the  reedy  border 
of  the  little  bay  below  them  ;  but  there  was  no  sign 
of  intrusion  from  the  approach  of  man.  He  turned 
upon  his  companion,  and  with  a  visible  effort  to 
speak  in  an  unfaltering  tone,  he  exclaimed,  —  ''•  Fa 
ther  Matteo  !  the  die  is  not  yet  cast.  It  is  not  too 
late  to  pause  and  consider  the  dark  paths  I  am  about 
to  tread  !  " 

The  monk  made  no  reply ;  he  stroked  the  neck  of 
his  horse  with  his  bony,  gloveless  hand,  and  a  with 
ering  sneer  passed  over  his  lips,  but  he  did  not  even 
lift  his  eyes  to  the  speaker. 

18* 


210  JOANNA    OF   NAPLES. 

"  No,"  pursued  the  prince,  "  it  cannot  be  too  late. 
So  secret  have  been  our  transactions,  so  desperate 
is  the  deed  contemplated,  so  madly  have  I  been  hur 
ried  on  of  late  !  —  I  will,  I  must  pause  to  reflect  yet 
again  !  There  are  moments  when  I  am  alone  at 
midnight,  in  which  things  wear  an  aspect  so  differ 
ent  !  It  seems  to  me,  holy  father,  that,  whether  I 
prosper  or  fail  in  this  undertaking,  I  must  be  a  mis 
erable,  miserable  man.  At  one  time  I  feel  that  I  am 
lured  forward  by  the  glittering  form  of  an  ambition 
as  glorious  as  becomes  my  princely  race  ;  then  it 
seems  as  if  the  base  goblin  figures,  Covetousness, 
Fanaticism,  Treachery,  beckoned  me  on  to  my  de 
struction.  Now,  methinks,  the  voice  of  God  is  in 
my  ear  ;  then,  the  horrid  whispers  of  a  fiend  !  Fa 
ther  !  it  is  dreadful." 

"  Is  there  nothing  more  dreadful  ?  "  asked  the  Do 
minican.  Then,  raising  his  voice  above  the  sepul 
chral  tone  which  seemed  to  have  awed  the  prince 
for  a  moment,  he  slowly  pronounced  the  words,  — 
"  Thy  faith  broken  with  man,  the  commands  of  the 
Holy  Church  mocked,  the  drawn  sword  basely 
sheathed,  thy  warlike  fame  tarnished,  the  sparkling 
crown  withdrawn  from  thy  unworthy  brows,  a  wo 
man's  foot  upon  thy  neck,  the  derision  of  nations  on 
thy  inglorious  retreat,  thy  secret  schemes  made  pub 
lic  and  scoffed  at  because  thou  hadst  not  courage  to 
carry  them  through,  thy  life  dragged  out  in  ignoble 
obscurity,  thy  death  a  passage  to  —  eternal  perdition, 
—  Charles  of  Durazzo,  how  likest  thou  the  picture  ?  " 


JOANNA    OF   NAPLES.  211 

The  face  of  Durazzo,  red  and  pale  by  turns,  spoke 
volumes  ;  but  mastering  the  internal  struggle,  he  ex 
claimed,  —  "  It  is  dark  as  midnight !  I  know  that  I 
am  entangled  almost  beyonjd  hope  of  extrication  ;  that 
to  advance  or  retreat  must  be  alike  desperate  ;  that 
my  worldly  fortunes  and  happiness  are  already  staked, 
and  cannot  escape  the  dreadful  jeopardy.  But,  keep 
er  of  souls  !  I  adjure  you  by  all  your  holy  vows,  by 
your  regard  for  the  salvation  of  a  fellow-creature, 
who  has  given  you  the  direction  of  his  conscience, 
by  your  reverence  for  God,  and  the  Holy  Virgin, 
and  the  blessed  company  of  saints  arid  martyrs,  tell 
me  one  thing  truly,  —  am  I  right  ?  am  I  right  ?  I  ask 
you  !  " 

A  sudden  gleam  of  triumph  shot  from  the  eye  of 
the  monk,  as  he  heard  this  testimony  to  his  still  un 
shaken  power  ;  but  it  was  gone  in  an  instant,  and 
his  thin  lips  were  compressed  in  a  frigid  and  haughty 
silence. 

Charles  laid  his  hand  almost  imploringly  on  the 
coarse,  black  sleeve,  and  went  on  in  a  choked  voice. 
"  Tell  me  what  crime  can  be  fouler  than  ingratitude, 
—  the  very  word  is  heavy  on  my  tongue  !  —  ingrat 
itude  to  her  who  took  me  under  the  shelter  of  her 
palace  when  I  was  an  orphan  boy  ;  and  it  is  from  that 
very  palace  I  would  drive  her,  now  manhood  has 
made  me  independent  of  her  protection.  I  know  her 
queenly  spirit  ;  she  will  not  yield  her  natural  rights 
without  a  struggle,  and  my  hand  must  be  raised 
against  her  in  parricidal  violence.  My  father  was  her 


212  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

foe,  and  she  forgave  him.  He  fell  by  the  hand  of  an 
assassin,  and  she  took  me,  a  beardless,  helpless  boy, 
scarce  numbering  twelve  summers,  to  a  home  she 
made  always  happy.  O  holy  priest !  I  tell  you  my 
manhood  will  wear  an  indelible  stain  if  I  wrong  that 
more  than  mother  !  I  told  you  so,  when  you  first 
came  to  me  with  the  tempting  propositions  of  our 
most  holy  Father.  I  told  you  so  in  amazement  and 
indignation  ;  and  how  you  have  lulled  those  honor 
able  scruples,  how  you  have  alternately  lured  and 
goaded  me  on  to  this  wretched  pass,  I  know  not. 
The  struggle  was  long  and  fierce,  you  well  know, 
and  now  it  begins  afresh.  Priest,  I  doubt !  I  doubt ! 
banish  these  misgivings  if  you  can.  Prove,  prove 
to  me  that  the  deeds  on  which  I  am  rushing  are  not 
crimes,  —  base,  unnatural,  monstrous  crimes  !  " 

It  was  in  tones  of  agony  that  the  prince  spoke. 
The  perspiration  stood  on  his  forehead,  arid  his  eyes 
were  fixed  almost  wildly  on  the  monk,  who  had  the 
advantage  of  perfect  self-possession.  Interlacing  his 
emaciated  fingers,  clasping  his  hands  to  his  breast, 
and  raising  his  eyes  to  heaven,  he  seemed  for  a  few 
moments  lost  in  holy  meditation  ;  his  lips  then 
moved,  and  as  audible  sounds  began  to  escape  from 
them,  the  concluding  words  of  a  Latin  prayer  were 
articulated  solemnly  and  distinctly.  He  then  bent 
his  penetrating  eyes  on  the  prince,  with  a  gaze  so 
long  and  fixed,  that  it  became  embarrassing,  and  in 
a  tone  unwontedly  gentle  and  tender  said.  —  "  My 
son !  to  recede  is  guilt ;  to  pause  is  guilt ;  to  hesitate 


JOANNA    OF   NAPLES.  213 

is  guilt ;  penance  and  absolution  can  alone  wash 
away  this  day's  errors.  I  have  warned  you  ;  the 
consequences  of  a  change  in  your  purposes  will  be 
terrible  ;  I  cannot  screen  you  from  them.  Worldly 
shame  will  hurry  you  to  an  ignoble  grave  ;  the  mal 
ediction  of  the  Church  will  blight  and  blast  you  for 
ever ;  and  for  what  will  you  brave  all  this  ?  Are 
you  a  man,  that  the  smile  or  the  tear  of  a  woman's 
eye  can  thus  work  on  the  noblest  purposes  of  your 
soul  ?  Are  you  a  prince,  that,  when  a  fair  kingdom 
is  at  your  disposal,  and  the  arm  of  the  Church  is 
stretched  forth  to  place  you  on  an  independent 
throne,  you  prefer  to  remain  a  vassal,  because  a  wo 
man  has  this  morning  whispered  old  tales  of  your 
nursery  days  in  your  ear !  For  shame,  belted  knight ! 
for  shame,  armed  warrior !  "  Then,  changing  his  tone 
to  one  of  deep  and  awful  denunciation,  —  "  Joanna 
must  fall  !  She  that  brought  you  up  at  her  foot 
stool,  to  be  the  plaything  of  her  idle  hours,  and  her 
bravo  when  you  should  wear  a  sword,  —  she  who 
would  have  kept  you  to  glitter  at  her  court,  or  fight 
at  her  bidding  under  a  husband's  banner,  must  come 
down  from  a  height  that  dizzies  her  female  brain. 
The  realms  of  Naples  are  too  fair  and  powerful  to 
be  longer  swayed  by  the  caprices  of  a  woman.  God 
hath  given  to  his  Vicegerent  on  earth  the  power  to 
crown  and  uncrown  ;  to  distribute  sceptres  among 
the  children  of  men,  not  according  to  the  idle  chan 
ces  of  birth,  but  in  obedience  to  the  nobler  laws  of 
the  general  good.  She,  on  whose  fame  lie  indelible 


214  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

stains  of  evil  report,  whom  the  wrath  of  Heaven  has 
pursued  with  incessant  calamity,  must  sparkle  no 
longer  in  the  constellation  of  crowned  heads.  Among 
the  courts  of  Europe  hers  must  fade,  with  its  boasted 
lustre.  Her  hour  is  come  ;  and  she  must  tell  her 
beads  in  the  silent  cell  of  a  recluse,  and  wear  the 
stones  of  some  secluded  monastery  with  her  humbled 
knees.  Some  bold  heart,  brave  hand,  and  manly 
brow  shall  win  and  wear  the  prize  suspended  aloft. 
Prince  of  Durazzo,  whose  shall  it  be,  —  thine  or 
another's  ?  Choose  !  " 

Charles  sprung  madly  from  his  horse,  and  dashed 
himself  on  the  ground,  at  the  foot  of  a  noble  tree, 
his  plate  armour  rattling  as  he  fell  prostrate.  He  re 
mained  plunged  in  a  mental  conflict  the  most  severe  ; 
while  the  stately  monk,  drawing  himself  up  to  his 
full  height,  sat  composedly  watching  the  victim,  as 
he  struggled  in  the  toils  that  were  woven  so  invisi 
bly  but  invincibly  about  him.  The  master-key  had 
again  been  touched,  and  with  a  master's  hand.  Am 
bition,  —  the  burning  desire  to  exchange  his  ducal 
coronet  for  a  kingly  crown,  —  to  step  forward  and  sig 
nalize  himself  among  the  potentates  of  Europe,  the 
peer,  perhaps,  of  Louis  of  Anjou,  Regent  of  France,  — 
all  worked  within  the  compass  of  one  human  breast 
to  accomplish  his  fate,  and  that  of  thousands  linked 
with  it.  The  bare  idea  of  seeing  a  boon  so  glorious 
snatched  from  him,  enjoyed  by  another,  roused  the 
jealousy  of  his  nature,  and  made  each  better  impulse 
of  generosity,  honor,  and  gratitude  seem  like  the 
sickly  fancies  of  some  fever-fit. 


JOANNA   OP   NAPLES.  215 

He  rose  at  last,  but  languidly,  as  if  the  struggle 
had  taken  the  strength  from  his  joints  ;  and  as  he 
sat  for  a  few  moments  with  downcast  looks,  his  fin 
gers  played  with  the  moss  and  wild-flowers  growing 
about  the  roots  of  the  old  tree  ;  he  even  tore  them 
up  unconsciously,  but  his  thoughts  were  not  with 
those  sweet,  innocent  objects  of  his  boyish  admira- 
tipn.  The  hectic  spot  on  his  cheek  showed  that  the 
passions  of  manhood  were  racking  him  within,  arid 
the  big  tears  rolled  slowly  down  his  face.  As  the 
priest  seemed  resolved  on  a  stern  silence,  he  was  not 
roused  till  a  swelling  breeze  brought  the  faint  blast 
of  a  trumpet  from  some  distant  winding  of  the  road. 
His  horse,  grazing  negligently  beside  him,  lifted  his 
head  arid  pawed  the  earth  at  the  well-known  sound, 
and  Charles,  starting  up,  vaulted  into  the  saddle.  As 
he  turned  to  regain  the  road,  the  hand  of  Father 
Matteo  was  laid  firmly  on  his  bridle.  "  My  son," 
said  he.  The  prince  looked  up,  and  met  those  pen 
etrating  eyes,  bent  upon  him  with  their  darkest  aus 
terity.  "  We  must  have  no  more  of  these  scenes  ! 
no  more  faltering,  no  more  baby  talk  !  The  die  is 
cast ;  and  your  soul  is  the  stake  for  which  you  play  ! 
Should  the  birds  of  the  air  carry  the  tale  of  this 
day's  irresolution  to  the  footstool  of  Urban " 

Charles  impatiently  strove  to  dash  forward,  but 
the  grasp  of  the  monk  on  his  bridle  was  not  to  be 
shaken  off ;  and  his  horse  reared  so  violently  as  al 
most  to  unseat  the  rider.  "  Whither  so  fast  ?  "  asked 
Father  Matteo  ;  "  back,  to  play  the  hireling  of  a 
Hungarian  ? " 


216  JOANNA    OF   NAPLES. 

"Forward,"  shouted  Charles,  "to  Rome,  —  to  Na 
ples,  —  to  a  bloody  grave,  please  God !  "  — and  burst 
ing  from  the  priest,  he  galloped  with  frantic  speed 
in  the  direction  of  his  troops,  and  soon  disappeared 
among  the  trees.  His  confessor  sat  gazing  after  him 
a  moment,  and  a  smile  of  most  unchristian  exulta 
tion  played  again  over  his  features.  "  The  work 
speeds/'  he  murmured  to  himself,  "  and  he  of  the 
tiara  shall  say  he  chose  well  his  instrument.  Charles, 
men  speak  of  thy  virtues  ;  but  thou  hast  one  pas 
sion  which  a  master  spirit  shall  use  to  exterminate 
them,  and  work  his  own  ends.  Ambition  !  —  ambi 
tion  !  —  the  crown  for  him,  —  and  for  me  —  what 
lures  me  on  but  the  scarlet  hat,  —  and  the  hope  of 
vengeance  !  "  His  head  sunk  on  his  breast,  and  he 
followed  the  prince  at  a  more  moderate  pace. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

ONCE  more  we  revisit  the  beautiful  city  of  Naples, 
and  her  whom  its  populace  love,  even  at  this  day,  to 
call  "  our  Queen  Joanna."  But  we  pass  over  an  in 
terval  of  some  weeks,  since,  struck  to  the  heart  by 
the  treachery  of  Durazzo,  she  stifled  the  feelings  of 
the  woman,  and  prepared  for  the  duties  of  the  queen. 
Lofty  and  calm,  she  betrayed  none  of  her  secret  grief, 
and  showed  no  irritability  or  hastiness  of  temper. 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  217 

She  listened  coolly  when  her  officers  came  to  consult 
with  her,  deliberated  wisely,  but  acted  with  decis 
ion  ;  while  to  all  her  immediate  attendants  the  mel 
ancholy  sweetness  of  her  voice  and  manner  had 
something  in  it  so  touching,  that  they  were  often 
melted  into  tears  in  the  midst  of  their  most  ordinary 
intercourse.  The  panic  among  her  women  was  in 
deed  great,  and  not  without  cause. 

Charles,  expecting  no  acquiescence  in  his  demands, 
and  fully  prepared  to  act,  had  marched  with  all  speed 
upon  Naples  ;  Joanna  had  retreated  into  the  Castell 
Nuovo,  and  had  immediately  ascended  its  ramparts. 
Lying  on  the  east  of  the  city,  which  rises  like  an 
amphitheatre  from  the  north  side  of  its  celebrated 
bay,  the  walls  of  the  castle  were  washed  on  one  side 
by  the  sea ;  and  thither  she  betook  herself,  fixing  a 
long  and  anxious  gaze  on  the  hazy  line  where  sky 
and  water  met ;  but  not  a  speck  appeared.  The  gal 
leys  from  Provence  were  probably  still  ploughing 
their  way  through  distant  tracts  of  the  Mediterra 
nean.  She  went  to  another  part  of  the  castle,  and 
looked  eastward.  The  dust  rising  in  clouds  above 
the  vineyards  showed  that  Otho  was  advancing  with 
all  possible  speed  from  Calabria  ;  but  alas  !  too  late. 
Between  him  and  his  unfortunate  wife  the  troops  of 
Durazzo  were  pouring  into  the  streets  of  Naples  ; 
and  it  was  only  tantalizing  to  watch  his  approach. 
Still,  however,  she  stood  with  breathless  interest,  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  spectacle,  till  an  officer  of  her. 


218  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

household  came  to  her  with  every  mark  of  haste  and 
agitation. 

'•'  The  gates,"  he  exclaimed,  "  the  gates  of  the 
castle  are  beset  by  fugitives.  We  have  closed  them, 
but  the  cry  is  terrible.  The  wretches  are  flying  be 
fore  the  sword  of  the  enemy  !  " 

"  Admit  them,"  replied  the  queen  ;  "  admit  them 
instantly." 

"  May  it  please  your  Majesty,"  said  an  aged  senes 
chal,  "  it  will  be  your  destruction  ;  they  bring  fam 
ine  with  them  as  surely  as  they  enter  these  walls." 

"  How,"  asked  the  queen,  "  have  we  no  food  ? 
Did  I  not  give  orders  three  days  since  that  the  castle 
should  be  stocked  for  seven  months  ?  Was  I  not 
obeyed  ?  " 

"  To  the  letter,"  returned  the  old  man,  one  of  the 
most  trusted  of  her  personal  attendants  ;  "  your  offi 
cers  and  your  servants  have  done  your  bidding,  and 
the  provisions  in  the  castle  will  last  its  present  in 
mates  full  seven  months ;  but  we  must  have  no  more 
mouths  to  consume  them." 

The  queen  hesitated ;  the  distant  cries  of  the  pop 
ulace  reached  her,  and  one  of  her  barons  came  hasti 
ly  upon  the  wall.  "Let  me  pray  your  Majesty  to 
withdraw  ;  one  of  the  apartments  by  the  sea  will  be 
more  retired  and  quiet." 

"  Quiet !  "  said  she,  with  a  tone  of  mournful  sur 
prise  ;  "  what  have  I  to  do  with  quiet  ?  Is  this  an 
hour  for  Joanna  of  Naples  to  seek  ease  and  tranquil 
lity  ?  Why  should  I  retire  ?  " 


JOANNA    OF   NAPLES.  219 

"  Because,"  replied  the  Baron,  "  the  people  at  the 
gate  are  almost  frantic  with  terror  ;  their  shrieks  fill 
the  air ;  it  must  distress  you,  for  you  cannot  afford 
them  the  slightest  aid." 

"  I  hear  them  !  I  hear  them  calling  on  my  name !  " 
exclaimed  Joanna. 

"  They  do,  indeed,"  replied  the  Baron  ;  "  they 
seem  to  invoke  you  as  they  would  their  saints.  Let 
me  implore  your  Majesty  to  leave  the  walls." 

The  tumult  increased.  "  Are  the  gates  strong  ?  " 
asked  the  seneschal. 

"  As  adamant,"  returned  the  Baron.  "  I  bade  the 
soldiers  use  no  violence  to  drive  the  poor  creatures 
back  on  the  enemy  •  women  and  children  can  never 
burst  such  barricades." 

"  Holy  Yirgin  !  "  cried  the  queen,  "  I  cannot  bear 
it.  Let  me  see,  let  me  speak  to  them." 

The  Baron  threw  himself  respectfully  before  her. 
"  I  conjure  your  Majesty  to  abstain.  It  may  wring 
your  heart,  but  it  can  do  no  good;  they  cannot,  they 
must  not,  be  admitted." 

"  Luca  di  Battista  !  "  said  the  queen,  :<  stand 
back  !  " 

She  uttered  these  words  gently,  but' with  a  tone 
of  decision.  He  yielded  instantly,  and  with  a  de 
jected  air  and  anxious  brow  followed  his  royal  mis 
tress  to  a  small  apartment  above  the  great  gate  of 
the  citadel.  This  was  one  of  the  five  fortresses  by 
which  Naples  was  strengthened,  and  seemed  proof 
against  assault.  No  sooner  did  the  queen  present 


220  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

herself  at  the  window  which  looked  down  into  the 
thronged  square,  than  the  tumult  redoubled ;  and  for 
a  moment  she  shrunk  back  and  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands.  It  was  indeed  a  startling  sight.  The  throng 
consisted  principally  of  women  and  children  ;  the 
withered  faces  of  the  aged,  the  ghastly  ones  of  the 
sick,  all  were  upturned  to  her.  Arms  were  stretched 
out  imploringly,  and  every  voice  uttered  her  name, 
mingled  with  all  those  piteous  phrases  of  entreaty  in 
which  the  Italian  tongue  abounds.  In  vain  she  at 
tempted  to  address  them  ;  as  they  looked  up  to  her, 
standing  in  simple  white  raiment,  without  one  regal 
ornament  about  her  person,  recognized  for  their  queen 
only  by  her  noble  air  and  well-known  countenance, 
it  seemed  as  if  they  beheld  in  her  some  blessed  fe 
male  saint,  who  could  save  them  from  destruction  by 
a  single  exertion  of  superhuman  power. 

Her  gestures  at  last  obtained  a  momentary  hush. 
She  was  about  imploring  them  to  attempt  their  es 
cape  to  another  fortress,  stating  why  she  could  not 
shelter  them  in  the  Castell  Nuovo,  when  the  silver 
tones  of  her  voice  were  drowned  in-  a  sh'rill  cry. 
which  rose  from  the  outskirts  of  the  throng.  In  a 
moment  the  whole  crowd  was  again  in  motion,  those 
at  a  distance  pressing  towards  the  drawbridge,  that 
crossed  the  moat,  against  those  nearest  the  gate,  until 
the  struggle  and  crush  became  tremendous.  The 
queen  and  her  attendants  saw  too  plainly  the  cause 
of  the  disturbance  from  their  elevated  position.  Over 
looking  the  heads  of  the  people,  their  view  extended 


JOANNA    OP   NAPLES.  221 

down  a  long  street ;  and  at  its  termination  the  flash 
ing  of  swords  showed  a  furious  conflict  going  on. 
Some  of  the  citizens  were  defending  themselves  vig 
orously  as  they  retreated  towards  their  helpless  wives 
and  children ;  but  it  was  evident  that  their  force  was 
inefficient,  and  that  the  mounted  soldiers  of  Durazzo 
were  driving  them  in  triumphantly.  No  sooner  did 
the  unhappy  wretches  at  the  gate  become  aware  of 
this  fact,  than  their  agonizing  cries  again  rent  the 
air.  "  Our  good  queen  !  our  blessed  queen  !  have 
mercy  on  us  !  We  shall  be  cut  to  pieces  !  For  the 
love  of  the  Holy  Virgin,  save  us !  " 

The  heart  of  woman  could  bear  it  no  longer.  Jo 
anna  turned  suddenly,  with  tears  rolling  down  her 
cheeks,  to  her  officers,  and  bade  them  open  the  gates. 
They  hesitated ;  but  a  momentary  anger  flashed  from 
her  eyes  as  she  repeated  her  order,  —  "  Luca  di  Bat- 
tista  !  descend  and  see  that  those  gates  be  unbarred 
to  my  people  !  Shall  I  stand  here  and  behold  them 
slaughtered  like  sheep  ?  Admit  them,  or  I  will  give 
my  own  neck  to  the  swords  of  yonder  cutthroats  !  " 

The  nobleman  obeyed  her  in  melancholy  silence  ; 
and  as  the  work  of  unclosing  the  huge  double  gates 
occupied  some  moments,  the  tumultuous  throng 
heard  with  impatience  the  clang  of  the  dropping 
bars  and  grating  bolts  ;  and  when  at  last  the  doors 
were  seen  to  move  slowly  inwards,  the  rush  was 
dreadful.  The  shrieks  of  the  bruised,  the  stifled 
cries  of  those  who  were  thrown  down  and  trampled 
upon,  the  confusion  within,  where  the  unhappy  crea- 

19* 


222  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

tures  scattered  themselves  in  every  direction,  —  some 
still  pale  with  terror,  hardly  realizing  their  safety, 
some  flushed  and  heated  with  the  struggle,  some 
crying  wildly  for  those  they  had  lost  in  the  press,  — 
all  produced  a  bewildering  effect  on  the  mind  of  the 
queen.  She  stood  a  long  time  immovable  and  almost 
breathless.  At  last  a  few  bloody  stragglers  from  the 
conflict  came  flying  up  the  street,  hotly  chased  by 
the  enemy.  There  was  barely  time  to  admit  them 
also,  while  volleys  of  arrows  from  a  body  of  archers, 
whom  Luca  di  Battista  had  stationed  on  the  walls 
for  the  purpose,  kept  back  the  pursuers  till  the  gates 
were  again  closed  and  secured. 

Then,  and  not  till  then,  the  queen  drew  a  long 
breath,  and,  turning  from  the  window,  looked  for  a 
moment  at  those  about  her  with  an  expression  of 
despair.  "  Could  I  have  done  otherwise  ?  "  said  she. 
None  answered,  and  the  old  seneschal  alone  shook 
his  head  sadly,  and  she  passed  into  the  gallery  which 
conducted  to  her  own  apartments,  leaving  consterna 
tion  in  the  little  group  behind. 

Before  night  a  strict  investigation  was  made  by 
order  of  the  queen;  and  it  was  ascertained  that, 
swarming  as  the  fortress  now  was  with  human  be 
ings,  the  provisions  it  contained  would  barely  enable 
her  to  hold  out  one  month.  Before  that  period 
should  have  elapsed  success  might  crown  the  arms 
of  Otho,  or  the  expected  aid  from  Provence  might 
arrive  ;  and  leaning  on  these  two  chances,  she  was 
now  condemned  to  that  trial  most  wearing  to  the 


JOANNA    OF   NAPLES.  223 

nerves,  a  period  of  helpless  inaction  and  cruel  sus 
pense.  Durazzo  occupied  the  city ;  her  husband 
immediately  laid  siege  to  him ;  but  though  she  could 
distinguish  the  camp  of  that  brave  warrior  beyond 
the  walls,  and  was  aware  of  the  frequent  skirmishes 
going  on  between  the  parties,  she  found  it  impossible 
to  open  a  communication  with  him.  The  difficulty 
of  enforcing  attention  to  the  rules  her  forethought 
had  laid  down,  and  securing  a  wise  abstemiousness 
among  the  motley  population  of  the  Castell  Nuovo, 
gave  her  officers  incessant  perplexity  within  its  walls. 
Her  own  table  was  spread  with  the  absolute  parsi 
mony  which  circumstances  made  needful,  and  she 
herself  underwent  a  perpetual  fasting  penance,  set 
ting  an  example  of  cheerful  submission  to  privation  ; 
yet  each  day  brought  to  her  accounts  of  the  alarm 
ing  diminution  in  the  public  stock  of  provisions,  and 
the  necessity  of  lessening  the  scanty  allowance  doled 
out  to  the  people. 

Three  long  weeks  passed  on  ;  day  by  day  the  walls 
were  lined  before  sunrise  with  unhappy  beings,  strain 
ing  their  eyes  seaward,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
hoped-for  succors  from  their  queen's  French  domin 
ions,  or  striving  to  ascertain  on  which  side  success 
lay  in  the  daily  conflicts  between  Otho  and  Duraz 
zo.  The  latter  showed  little  disposition  to  assault 
the  Castell  Nuovo  ;  the  strength  of  its  fortifications, 
defended  by  skilful  archers,  made  him  unwilling  to 
waste  the  blood  of  his  soldiers,  while  sure,  from  the 
circumstances  of  the  case,  that  his  powerful  ally, 


224  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

famine,  would  eventually  give  him  a  bloodless  vic 
tory  ;  and  his  immediate  attention  was  engrossed  by 
the  harassing  attacks  of  his  own  besieger.  He  con 
tented  himself  with  frequently  summoning  the  queen 
to  surrender  ;  and  she  at  last  felt  that  a  dreadful  al 
ternative  was  before  her.  She  must  surrender,  or 
feel  that  she  had  brought  a  cruel  and  lingering  death 
on  some  hundreds  of  innocent  fellow-beings. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

IN  the  mean  time  Margaret  remained  at  Rome, 
watching  unremittingly  over  her  little  charge,  whose 
spirit  hovered  for  days  on  the  verge  of  death  ;  ap 
parently  about  to  quit  its  tabernacle  of  clay,  yet  still 
lingering,  as  if  yielded  a  little  longer  to  the  prayers 
of  maternal  fondness.  The  instincts  of  her  heart 
had  led  Margaret  to  forget  every  other  possible  evil 
in  the  dreaded  calamity  of  bereavement.  Even  the 
mysterious  delay  of  her  husband  was  to  her  mind 
almost  satisfactorily  explained,  when  her  attendants 
assured  her  that  business  of  the  most  pressing  nature 
had  led  him  back  to  Lombardy.  She  questioned  not 
the  truth  of  their  statements  ;  her  whole  soul  was 
absorbed  in  the  conflict  between  life  and  death  car 
ried  on  beneath  her  eye  ;  and  as  the  superstition  of 
the  age  led  her  to  vow  wealth  untold  to  the  altars  of 


JOAXXA   OF  NAPLES.  225 

that  holy  Mother,  whose  beautiful  character  and  at 
tributes  shone  like  the  morning  star  on  the  night  of 
her  sorrow,  she  felt  the  force  $f  the  loveliest  delu 
sion  that  ever  mocked  an  aching  heart.  Trusting  in 
the  power  of  that  sweet  and  gentle  being  to  call 
back  her  darling  from  the  threshold  of  the  tomb,  and 
unconscious  that  there  was  in  her  own  nature  a  glo 
rious  principle  of  resignation,  which  could  extract 
the  bitterness  from  all  affliction,  and  fit  her  to  bear 
that  which  it  was  now  intolerable  to  contemplate, 
she  prayed  unceasingly  for  one  specific  object,  the 
restoration  of  her  little  Joanna  to  health.  At  last 
the  unskilful  pharmacy  of  that  age  was  no  longer 
baffled  by  the  fierce  disease  ;  it  was  plain  that  the 
yet  innocent  soul  of  the  patient  was  not  to  seek 
those  realms  of  kindred  purity,  where  temptation 
could  never  come  nigh  nor  sin  pollute  it ;  it  was  to 
bear  its  terrible  probation  on  earth.  Alas  !  could  the 
mother,  whose  tears  of  rapture  bathed  the  creature 
she  deemed  rescued  by  her  prayers,  have  seen  the 
curtain  of  futurity  raised,  and  Joanna  the  Second  of 
Naples  performing  her  disgraceful  part  amid  the  ig 
nominious  events  ! 

Brief,  however,  was  the  transport  of  that  hour  in 
which  her  physicians  announced  that  the  child  would 
live.  Margaret  had  returned  from  the  neighbouring 
chapel,  whither  she  had  hurried  to  pour  out  the  over 
flowing  gratitude  of  her  soul  ;  and  she  stood  gazing 
on  the  emaciated  object  of  her  tenderness,  when  her 
reverie  was  interrupted  by  a  benediction  uttered  in  a 


226  JOANNA  OF   NAPLES. 

deep  tone  by  some  one  behind  her.  She  turned  and 
beheld  the  Dominican  standing  in  the  doorway,  with 
whom  her  husband *had  left  her  so  abruptly  at  their 
last  interview.  She  did  not  recognize  him,  however, 
nor  did  the  idea  of  his  identity  with  that  unwelcome 
person  occur  to  her,  till  he  announced  himself  as  the 
Father  Matteo  da  Villani,  the  confessor  of  Charles  of 
Durazzo.  Then,  indeed,  she  clasped  her  hands  with 
a  mingled  emotion  of  joy  and  terror,  as  she  ex 
claimed,  —  "  And  whence  come  you,  holy  father  ? 
from  him,  my  beloved  husband  ?  " 

"  Even  so,"  returned  the  monk. 

"  And  how  fares  he  ?  Why  comes  he  not  hither  ? 
When  shall  I  see  him  again  ?  " 

"  He  sends  greeting  by  me  to  his  most  noble  lady, 
and  asks  tidings  of  the  health  of  his  child  ;  and 
prays  that,  if  her  sickness  pass  away,  you  will  come 
to  him  with  all  convenient  speed." 

Worn  out  as  Margaret  was  with  fatigue  and  anx 
iety,  this  fresh  access  of  joy  was  received  in  eloquent 
silence.  She  folded  her  hands,  and  raised  her  eyes 
to  a  niche  in  the  wall,  where  a  lamp  burnt  before  an 
image  of  the  Virgin,  —  an  image  before  which  she 
had  so  often  kneeled  during  her  late  cruel  vigils.  It 
was  some  moments  before  she  found  words  to  ex 
press  her  eagerness  to  rejoin  her  husband  once  more, 
whenever  the  health  of  her  child  should  be  suffi 
ciently  restored.  "  But  you  see  !  "  she  added,  point 
ing  to  the  cadaverous  countenance  of  her  patient. 

Father  Matteo  cast  a  cold  glance  on  the  half-inani- 


JOANNA   OF  NAPLES.  227 

mate  object,  and  said,  "  It  is  well.  My  errand  to 
Rome  was  not  of  this ;  but  coming  on  business  with 
his  Holiness,  I  likewise  bore  the  message  of  your 
husband.  When  it  is  fitting,  he  will  look  for  you 
in  Naples  ;  meantime,  I  return  thither  to-morrow, 
and  — 

"  Naples  !  said  you  ?  "  interrupted  the  princess,  — 
"  my  husband  in  Naples  ?  I  heard  you  not  rightly." 
She  looked  at  her  attendants  in  amazement,  and 
their  downcast,  confused  countenances  excited  her 
surprise  still  further.  "  What  is  this  mystery  ?  Why 
have  I  been  deceived  ?  "  inquired  the  princess  with 
increasing  vehemence  ;  "  they  told  rne  he  was  in 
Lombardy." 

"  I  know  not  what  they  may  have  told  you,  nor 
wherefore  they  have  blistered  their  tongues  with 
falsehood,"  resumed  the  monk  calmly  ;  "  but  I  ac 
quaint  you  with  the  truth.  He  is  in  his  home,  in 
the  fair  city  of  Naples." 

A  suspicion  now  broke  on  the  mind  of  Margaret, 
and  she  faintly  asked,  —  "  What  doth  he  there,  sir 
priest  ?  " 

"  He  contends  for  the  crown  which  God's  Vice 
gerent  hath  given  him,  and  besieges  the  dethroned 
Joanna  in  her  citadel." 

The  unhappy  princess  heard  not  the  concluding 
words  ;  there  was  a  ringing  in  her  ears  ;  the  room 
seemed  to  turn  round  with  a  wavering  motion,  and 
muttering,  —  "  Is  he  a  villain  ?  "  she  would  have 
swooned  heavily  on  the  floor,  if  her  attendants  had 


228  JOANNA  OF  NAPLES. 

not  caught  her  as  she  fell.  The  monk  staid  not  to 
look  on  the  sufferings  of  her  whom  he  had  felled 
with  a  word  ;  but  glided  in  the  confusion  out  of  the 
palace,  and  with  a  rapid  foot  sped  towards  the  hill 
of  the  Vatican. 

It  was"  long  ere  sense  returned  to  the  princess  ; 
and  when  at  last  the  indistinct  recollection,  that 
something  dreadful  had  befallen  her,  stole  on  her 
mind,  she  eagerly  uttered  the  name  of  her  child,  and 
looked  towards  the  well-known  couch,  where  all  her 
anxieties  of  late  had  centred.  Alas  !  a  few  more 
throbs  of  the  reviving  pulse,  and  memory  performed 
her  wonted  functions  too  faithfully  !  The  dreadful 
conviction  of  unworthiness  in  him  she  best  loved,  — 
the  idea  of  the  sufferings  endured  by  her  whom  she 
regarded  as  a  mother,  and  a  model  of  female  excel 
lence, —  by  turns  took  possession  of  her  imagination. 
Her  frame,  exhausted  by  long  watchings  and  recent 
cares,  was  not  prepared  to  endure  this  new  and  more 
intense  agony  of  mind ;  and  before  daylight  her 
alarmed  attendants  had  summoned  the  physicians 
again  to  the  palace,  to  exercise  their  skill  on  the  un 
fortunate  princess  of  Durazzo.  A  consuming  fever 
had  prostrated  her  so  entirely,  that  her  own  life  hung 
by  a  thread,  while  the  child  she  had  nursed  with 
such  tribulation  of  soul  lay  breathing  still  feebly  in 
a  neighbouring  apartment. 

The  short  Italian  twilight  was  already  descending, 
when  Father  Matteo  hurried  from  the  lonely  Palazzo 
San  Carlo  ;  but  almost  the  whole  extent  of  the  city 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  229 

lay  between  him  and  the  hill  of  the  Yatican.  The 
moon  rose  as  he  crossed  the  Tiber,  and  when  he 
stood  at  length  in  one  of  the  gardens  attached  to  the 
palace,  even  then  venerable  with  time,  the  fountain 
by  which  he  paused  showered  drops  of  silver  into  its 
basin  beneath  her  beams.  The  massy  pile  of  build 
ings  on  which  he  gazed  was  already  a  collection  of 
palaces,  rather  than  a  single,  symmetrical  edifice, 
cumbrous,  gloomy,  and  inconvenient.  The  glories 
of  the  coming  century  had  not  dawned  upon  it, 
when,  under  the  magnificent  Julius  the  Second,  its 
halls  began  to  glow  with  the  creations  of  a  Rapha 
el's  imagination;  when  architecture,  sculpture,  and 
painting  held  counsel  together,  how  they  should  ren 
der  it  most  worthy  to  be  the  earthly  residence  of 
Him  whose  empire  was  not  of  earth  alone.  The 
genius  of  Michel  Angelo  had  not  yet  suspended  be 
tween  heaven  and  earth  that  dome  over  the  neigh 
bouring  cathedral  which  should  be  the  admiration  of 
future  ages  ;  the  long  line  of  pontiffs  had  not  yet 
risen  who  should  gather  splendor  after  splendor  round 
this  favored  spot,  until  it  became  what  the  astonished 
traveller  now  finds  it,  —  a  wilderness  of  wonders. 
But  the  new  sanctity  which  was  attached  to  it  since 
the  sacred  Conclave  had  assembled  within  its  walls, 
an  arrangement  of  recent  date,  made  it  solemn  in  the 
eyes  of  all  true  Catholics  ;  while  the  power  of  Urban 
the  Sixth,  cruelly  and  perfidiously  exercised,  lent  to 
his  gloomy  residence  no  attractions  in  the  eyes  of 
the  young  and  gay.  The  stillness  of  death  brooded 
20 


230  JOANNA   OP   NAPLES. 

over  it  ;  the  part  of  the  building  which  the  monk 
had  approached  overlooked  the  garden  with  its  long 
ranges  of  windows  ;  but  no  one  sat  there  to  look 
forth  on  the  moonlight,  to  enjoy  the  evening  breeze 
and  the  fragrance  of  the  orange-blossoms.  Here  and 
there,  along  the  garden  walks,  silently  glided  the  fig 
ures  of  some  holy  brethren,  disappearing  like  ghosts 
in  the  deep  shadows  of  the  trees,  with  steps  as 
stealthy  as  if  pacing  the  cloisters  of  a  Carthusian  con 
vent.  The  lonely  owl,  in  the  Coliseum,  hooting  as 
the  moonbeams  looked  into  his  ivied  retreat,  could 
scarce  have  inspired  a  more  mournful  sense  of  des 
olation  than  was  awakened  by  the  hum  of  the  pop 
ulous  city,  coming  so  faintly  on  the  ear,  with  the 
dash  of  the  solitary  fountain.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
world,  with  all  its  living  bustle  and  innocent  pleas 
ures,  were  indeed  shut  out  from  the  haunt  of  re 
ligion.  But  the  religion  of  those  days  did  not  teach 
that  worldly  cares  and  pleasures  may  be  disarmed 
and  sanctified  by  the  spirit  we  may  carry  into  them  ; 
or  that  to  conquer  temptation  is  better  than  to  ex 
clude  it,  if  exclusion  be  possible. 

Father  Matteo  paused  to  take  breath  after  his  long 
and  hurried  walk ;  and  leaning  against  the  trunk  of  a 
tree,  he  watched  the  palace  with  some  anxiety.  At 
last  a  glimmer  appeared  at  a  window;  it  passed  on  to 
another  and  another  ;  and  the  figures  of  a  few  at 
tendants,  bearing  lights,  preceded  and  followed  the 
form  of  a  tall,  aged  man,  as  they  passed  along  an 
extensive  gallery.  "  It  is  he,"  murmured  the  monk  ; 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  231 

"  he  goes  to  his  private  closet  to  await  me  ;  and  this 
night  I  must  sound  the  depths  of  that  crafty  bosom. 
He  that  deals  with  Urban  must  tread  warily,  for 
yonder  dark  chamber  holds  uneasy  furniture  for  the 
limbs  of  those  he  loves  not.  They  say  the  creaking 
of  the  rack  disturbs  some  men  more  than  the  shrieks 
of  the  tortured  trouble  his  ruthless  spirit." 

He  again  drew  the  cowl  over  his  face,  and  ap 
proached  a  low  door,  in  an  angle  of  the  buildings, 
which  was  opened  at  his  knock.  He  passed  along 
many  passages,  leaving  others  on  either  hand,  through 
one  of  which  he  distinguished,  far  in  the  distance, 
the  massy  balustrade  of  that  ancient,  grand  staircase, 
over  which  had  passed  the  footsteps  of  Charlemagne, 
and  beside  it  the  equestrian  statue  of  Constantine 
the  Great,  standing  dimly  seen  and  majestic  beneath 
the  lamps  of  the  entrance  hall.  His  course,  how 
ever,  was  to  the  more  private  recesses  of  the  palace  ; 
yet  even  there  the  presence  of  the  Pope's  body-guard 
showed  a  dread  of  danger,  most  natural  in  one  who 
had  been  raised  to  power  in  a  popular  sedition,  and 
whose  claim  must  needs  be  as  insecure  as  unjust. 
The  monk  cast  not  a  glance  on  the  stolid  counte 
nances  of  these  automata,  nor  a  thought  on  the  in 
congruity  which  placed  armed  men  round  the  Head 
of  the  Church  ;  but  pressed  forward,  till  he  found 
himself  admitted  into  a  small  apartment,  scantily 
furnished. 

Before  him  stood  a  heavy  marble  table,  covered 
with  scrolls  of  parchment  ;  and  in  a  cumbrous  arm- 


232  JOANNA    OF   NAPLES. 

chair  beside  it,  without  canopy  or  ornament  of  any 
kind,  was  seated  a  stern  old  man.  His  complexion 
was  dark  and  bilious;  every  line  of  his  countenance 
strongly  marked  ;  his  forehead  high  and  square ;  and 
above  it  rose  a  round,  close  cap  of  dark  velvet.  The 
tiara  was  of  recent  introduction,  and  used  then,  as 
indeed  at  this  day,  only  on  public  occasions.  Not  a 
symptom  of  the  extravagance  which  then  inundated 
the  civilized  world  had  found  its  way  into  the  Papal 
palace  ;  neither  gems  nor  gold  glittered  about  the 
person  of  that  stern  denouncer  of  luxury,  Urban 
the  Sixth  ;  and  the  very  lamp  which  was  suspended 
from  the  ceiling  over  his  table  was  of  iron.  This 
affectation  of  simplicity  corresponded  ill  with  the 
number  of  valuable  parchments  scattered  about  the 
room,  —  a  number  which,  in  those  days,  was  pro 
fusion  ;  but  he  who  had  been  distinguished  as  the 
learned  Archbishop  of  Bari,  had  not  forgotten  his 
pride  of  erudition ;  so  various  are  the  forms  worn  by 
that  most  insidious  of  human  passions. 

There  was  one  person  more  present ;  a  young  man 
of  slight  figure  and  mild  aspect,  who  sat  apart,  as  if 
waiting  the  pleasure  of  a  superior.  The  attention 
of  the  Pontiff  seemed  absorbed  by  the  illuminated 
manuscript  volume,  over  whose  purple  vellum  pages 
he  was  poring  ;  the  monk  stood  unnoticed ;  and 
though  from  time  to  time  he  made  slight  movements 
to  attract  the  eye  of  Urban,  he  dared  not  approach 
the  table.  At  last  the  youth  spoke  in  a  low  voice, 
and  the  haughty  prelate,  looking  up,  coldly  saluted 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  238 

the  new-comer,  and  demanded  the  tidings  from  Na 
ples. 

"  I  have  left  it  in  the  hands  of  Durazzo,"  replied 
the  monk  ;  "  and  though  the  queen  still  holds  out, 
the  Castell  Nuovo  is  rather  her  prison  than  her  for 
tress.  She  never  can  issue  from  it  but  as  a  state- 
prisoner." 

"  And  Otho  ?  "  asked  the  Pontiff ;  "  his  troops  be 
leaguer  Naples,  we  have  heard." 

"  It  is  so,"  answered  Father  Matteo,  "  but  to  no 
purpose.  Famine  wastes  the  flesh  of  the  wretches 
whom  Joanna's  folly  admitted  within  her  walls,  and 
the  sword  of  her  husband  avails  her  little.  A  few  of 
her  nobles  deserted  her  on  the  arrival  of  a  prince, 
whose  claims  were  announced  to  be  sanctioned  by 
Heaven  itself ;  and  as  I  came  by  stealth  through  the 
troops  of  Otho,  there  I  found  disloyal  scruples  work 
ing  in  the  minds  of  many." 

"It  is  well,  —  it  is  well !  "  exclaimed  the  Pope,  his 
sullen  eye  sparkling  for  an  instant.  "  On  such  ground 
I  plant  my  foot.  The  power  of  the  Church  rests  on 
public  opinion  ;  I  have  sworn  to  myself  that  no  tittle 
of  the  rights  claimed  by  the  most  noble  of  my  prede 
cessors,  Gregory  the  Seventh,  shall  be  wrested 
from  my  hands  j  and  princes  must  know,  past  all 
doubt,  by  what  tenure  their  bawble  sceptres  are  held. 
This  woman,  who  disputes  the  authority  of  the  Holy 
See,  and  cleaves  to  Antipope,  —  how  stands  the  affec 
tion  of  your  prince  towards  her  ?  " 

20* 


234  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

The  monk  hesitated  somewhat  before  he  an 
swered  :  —  "It  is  still  strong." 

"  How  !  "  cried  the  prelate  ;  "  he  wars  upon  her. 
—  he  keeps  good  faith  with  us,  doth  he  not  ?  " 

"  Ay,  so  long  as  the  skilful  hand  is  on  the  bridle, 
he  will  not  dart  from  the  course ;  but  I  may  not  con 
ceal  from  your  Holiness  that  he  hath  given  me  much 
trouble  at  times." 

"  Say  on  ;  open  this  man's  heart  before  me.  I 
must  know  with  what  instruments  we  have  to 
work." 

As  he  spoke,  the  pontiff  rested  his  head  on  his 
hand,  and  fixed  his  searching  eye  on  the  monk,  who 
felt  under  it  the  consciousness  that  he  was  himself 
subjected  to  the  keenest  scrutiny.  He  went  on 
calmly,  however:  —  "My  trouble  with  the  hot-head 
ed  prince  hath  arisen  from  many  fond  fancies  he 
cherishes  concerning  the  gratitude  due  to  the  queen 
of  Naples,  and  the  obligations  of  his  youth.  He  is 
brave  to  heroism,  generous  and  open,  full  of  what 
men  call  noble  feelings  and  good  impulses  ;  but  duc 
tile,  unsteady,  and  devoured  by  ambition." 

"  He  is  the  man  I  thought  him,"  said  Urban ;  "  he 
is  the  man  we  want." 

"  I  believe  it,"  replied  the  monk  ;  "  but  great  as 
is  his  reverence  for  the  Church  of  Rome,  his  belief 
in  the  infallibility  and  supremacy  of  the  Holy  See, 
his  dread  of  its  denunciation,  and  strong  as  is  his 
thirst  for  power,  there  are  counteracting  principles  in 
his  nature  that  must  yet  be  crushed,  before  we  can 


JOANNA    OF   NAPLES.  235 

rely  upon  him.  A  single  interview  with  his  wife  in 
Lombardy,  if  I  had  not  cut  it  short,  would  have  un 
done  all  my  labor." 

"  Hath  she  such  influence  ?  "  asked  Urban,  knit 
ting  his  brows.  "  She  must  be  disposed  of." 

"  She  is  so.  I  have  no  fear  from  that  quarter  for 
the  present  ;  for  I  came  upon  her,  when  already  half 
dead  with  fatigue  and  anxiety,  and  when  I  told  her, 
with  intentional  abruptness,  the  part  her  husband 
plays  at  Naples,  she  dropped  as  if  smitten  by  a  thun 
derbolt.  She  will  not  cajole  the  soft  heart  of  Du- 
razzo  very  speedily,  for,  if  I  mistake  not,  she  will 
be  little  able  to  thrust  herself  among  the  counsels  of 
men  till  the  purposes  of  your  Holiness  are  completed. 
It  is  from  Joanna  herself,  —  from  the  sorcery  that  she 
exercises  over  all  who  approach  her,  —  that  we  must 
keep  this  warrior.  His  wife  but  spoke  to  him  of  the 
queen,  and  his  firmest  resolutions  dissolved  like  va 
por  in  the  sunbeams.  What  effect  will  the  aspect, 
the  words,  the  reproaches,  the  tears,  of  the  queen 
herself  have  upon  him  ?  It  was  your  pleasure,  as  to 
my  management  on  this  point,  I  carne  to  know." 

Urban's  countenance  grew  darker  and  darker.  "  Is 
the  faith  of  Charles  pledged  to  you,  in  behalf  of  my 
nephew  here  ?  "  asked  he. 

"  It  is  ;  as  surely  as  he  mounts  the  throne  of  Na 
ples,  so  surely  will  he  put  the  Count  Butillo  in  pos 
session  of  the  domains  he  hath  promised.  I  have 
not  a  doubt  whether  he  will  keep  faith  with  your 
Holiness  in  this  matter.  Let  him  but  conquer  the 


236  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

feelings  which  plead  in  behalf  of  Joanna,  and  the 
work  is  done  ;  he  is  ours  for  ever.  The  sole  obsta 
cle  we  have  to  overcome  is  in  his  devoted  attach 
ment  to  that  woman.  If  that  is  not  wrought  upon 
by  herself,  or  any  other  subtle  enemy  to  our  plans, 
he  will  go  all  lengths.  Yet  she  has  many  friends  ; 
and  giving  out,  as  she  does,  that  your  Holiness  has 
accepted  costly  gifts  from  her,  and  professed  much 
friendship  for  her  of  late,  a  suspicion  of  duplicity 
has  alienated  many  good  Catholics  from  their  alle 
giance  to  the  true  Head  of  the  Church." 

The  monk  watched  the  effect  of  this  allusion  on 
the  pontiff;  but  the  harsh  features  of  Urban  were 
undisturbed.  "  It  is  true,"  he  coolly  remarked ;  "  for 
the  good  of  the  Church,  not  for  our  own  emolument, 
we  have  received  her  gifts,  and  we  have  kept  terms 
with  her  till  our  plans  were  matured.  It  is  now  time 
that  her  unmanageable  spirit  be  quelled,  her  luxuri 
ous  court  be  broken  up,  and  our  supremacy  made  to 
blaze  forth  before  the  eyes  of  all  the  potentates  of 
Europe.  She  must  be  made  a  warning,  —  a  fearful 
one ;  and  I  charge  you,  Matteo  da  Villani,  to  see  that 
neither  she,  nor  the  pretty  doll,  her  niece,  gets  access 
to  the  heart  of  this  prince  of  yours.  He  must  be 
on  the  throne  of  Naples,  for  there  he  can  serve  us. 
Whether  men  work  for  us  from  the  pure  wish  to 
aggrandize  the  Church,  or  from  the  hope  of  reward, 
we  must  use  them." 

The  monk,  who  had  been  so  calm  and  decided 
when  dealing  with  the  feebler  nature  of  Durazzo, 


JOANNA    OF   NAPLES.  237 

now  felt  himself  overmatched  by  an  abler  and  crafti 
er  intellect  than  his  own.  The  eye  of  Urban  was 
still  upon  him,  cold  and  stern,  watching  each  change 
of  his  countenance,  as  he  vainly  strove  to  control  its 
muscles;  and  he  was  conscious  that  he  visibly  shrunk 
from  a  glance  which  seemed  to  penetrate  his  inmost 
purposes.  He  looked  at  the  door  and  at  the  youth 
ful  nephew  of  the  Pope  alternately,  uncertain  wheth 
er  to  retreat,  or  to  venture  farther  into  conference 
with  one  so  powerful,  so  wily,  and  so  remorseless. 

Urban  perceived  his  embarrassment,  and  relaxing 
his  gloomy  brow,  added,  —  "  The  Church  hath  re 
wards,  it  is  true,  for  those  who  serve  her  skilfully 
and  faithfully,  and  on  none  can  her  honors  be  better 
bestowed.  Your  order,  Father  Matteo,  stands  pre 
eminent  in  services,  and  in  your  person  we  must  find 
one  who  will  both  carry  forward  our  interests  and 
grace  our  favors.  I  bind  myself  by  no  promises, 
mark  me,"  he  added,  observing  the  brightened  eye 
of  the  monk;  "but  I  bid  you  go  back  to  Naples,  and 
persevere  in  the  work  you  have  undertaken.  I  will 
take  care  that  my  physicians  visit  the  Princess  Mar 
garet  ;  and  if  they  manage  their  drugs  aright,  her  re 
covery  shall  be  conveniently  tardy ;  while  you,  with 
out  molestation  from  her  presence " 

The  cold-blooded  pontiff  was  here  interrupted  by 
an  ejaculation  from  the  young  man,  who  sat  almost 
behind  him,  and  who  arose  suddenly.  Urban  looked 
at  his  troubled  countenance  a  moment  with  some  ex 
pression  of  surprise,  and  then  said  quietly,  —  "  Fran- 


238  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

cis  !  you  are  but  a  boy,  and  a  faint-hearted  one.  I 
must  indeed  provide  for  him  who  hath  neither  a  pol 
itic  brain  nor  a  strong  hand.  Go  forth  !  a  moonlight 
walk  is  fitter  pastime  for  you  than  these  grave  collo 
quies.  I  will  take  sufficient  care  of  your  interests. 
You  shall  be  Prince  of  Capua,  and  hold  sway  over  a 
region  whose  soft  clime  may  suit  you  well." 

The  young  man  left  the  room  hastily,  untutored 
as  yet  in  the  dark  policy  of  the  court  of  Rome,  and 
rejoicing  to  escape  from  participation  in  counsels  so 
nefarious  ;  while  the  monk  looked  as  if  relieved  by 
his  absence,  —  so  true  it  is,  that  there  are  times  when 
the  most  hardened  in  guilt  feel  some  wholesome  awe 
in  the  presence  of  innocence.  The  door  had  scarce 
ly  closed,  when  he  drew  nearer  to  the  table,  and  in  a 
lower  tone,  with  his  eyes  fixed  inquiringly  on  the 
countenance  of  Urban,  he  asked,  —  "  Will  it  please 
your  Holiness  to  give  me  your  commands,  your  final 
commands,  respecting  the  course  to  be  pursued  ?  " 

"  Do  you  not  comprehend  the  scope  of  my  wish 
es  ?  "  said  Urban  ;  "  have  I  not  been  sufficiently  ex 
plicit  ?  " 

"  My  instructions  have  not  been  definite,"  returned 
the  monk  ;  "  how  far  this  prince  must  be  driven, 
to  what  measures  we  may  have  recourse,  in  order  to 
bend  this  haughty  queen,  I  know  not." 

"  She  must  bend  or  break,"  replied  the  Pontiff. 

"  She  will  never  yield  her  crown,  save  with  the 
head  that  wears  it,"  urged  Father  Matteo. 

The  pontiff  paused :  —  "  And  you  choose  not  to 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  239 

venture  too  far,  without  the  sanction  of  my  express 
command  !  You  are  a  wise  and  cautious  man,  Mat- 
teo  da  Villani,  and  must  needs  prosper  in  these  trou 
bled  times.  Now  bear  in  mind  what  I  say  to  you. 
That  mock-pope  at  Avignon  wins  men's  hearts  by 
his  courteous  words  and  gentle  deeds  ;  I  shrink  not 
from  dipping  my  hands  in  the  blood  that  would  gush 
from  the  neck  of  Joanna,  queen  of  Naples, — you  know 
that  I  should  not ;  but  interest,  good  Matteo,  interest 
bids  me  work  by  measures  more  politic.  Let  this 
Charles  of  Durazzo  be  goaded  on  by  every  spur  you 
can  apply  to  a  spirit  so  fiery  ;  and  either  in  the  hot 
hour  of  victory,  or  in  some  moment  of  despair,  when 
she  blocks  up  his  way,  manage  him  well,  good  con 
fessor,  and  you  will  find  no  need  of  precise  directions 
from  me." 

The  face  of  Father  Matteo  again  gleamed  with 
the  terrible  smile  of  exultation  it  wore,  when  Charles 
left  him  at  their  last  important  interview ;  and  that 
involuntary  smile  was  marked  by  a  shrewd  observer. 
"  I  would  have  you  speed  to  Naples,"  said  Urban, 
"  for  your  business  there  is  weighty  ;  but  before  our 
conference  close,  I  will  ask  you  a  plain  question,  and 
that  is  what  you  least  look  for.  Why  do  you  har 
bour  malice,  —  bitter,  persecuting,  vindictive  malice, 
against  the  queen  of  Naples  ?  " 

The  monk  for  an  instant  stood  dumb.  He  found 
himself  completely  unmasked  before  one  to  whom 
the  most  iniquitous  windings  of  the  human  heart 
were  familiar.  But,  taking  courage  from  the  very 


240  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

emergency  of  the  case,  he  resolved  to  unfold  his 
whole  secret  to  the  man  whose  sympathies  were  be 
lieved  to  be  with  all  things  dark  and  cruel.  His 
frame  shook,  and  his  emaciated  cheeks  became  livid, 
as,  almost  leaning  on  the  tables,  he  said  in  a  sup 
pressed,  hoarse  voice,  —  "I  am  the  son  of  that  Con 
rad  Wolf  whom  she  drove  ignominiously  from  Na 
ples.  Clement  the  Sixth  and  his  cardinals  had  unan 
imously  acquitted  her  of  the  fearful  charge  of  having 
murdered  her  husband.  She  came  back  in  her  pomp 
from  Provence.  I  saw  her  triumphant  pageant,  —  and 
then  I  saw  my  father  die  in  obscurity.  He  had  been 
mangled  by  the  infuriated  populace,  that  had  risen  in 
her  behalf,  —  and  I  swore  to  avenge  him.  I  swore 
that  she  too  should  die  a  violent  death  !  " 

Urban  looked  steadfastly  on  the  convulsed  features 
of  the  monk,  working  with  the  worst  passions  of 
human  nature.  "  I  have  seen  the  German  governor 
of  whom  you  speak,"  said  he  ;  "I  recognize  him  in 
every  lineament  of  his  son's  countenance.  All  men 
said  that  he  merited  his  fate." 

"I  care  not !  I  care  not !  "  cried  the  monk.  "  For 
give  me,  Holy  Father,  that  I  forget  in  whose  pres 
ence  I  stand.  My  feelings  do  not  often  burst  forth 
thus  ;  but  for  years  they  have  flowed  on  in  a  deep, 
steady,  strong  current,  that  leads  to  sure  revenge." 

"  Thou  art  of  the  wolf's  own  race,  I  see,"  said 
Urban,  with  a  bitter  smile  ;  "  and  truly  there  is  a 
promjse  that  thy  thirst  for  blood  may  be  quenched. 
Go  to  Naples,  to  Naples,  my  son  !  If  I  love  not  its 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  241 

haughty  queen,  I  need  but  give  her  up  to  thy  tender 
mercies  ;  and  that  I  surely  will,  if  she  do  not  grovel 
in  the  dust  beneath  my  feet.  Leave  us  and  set  forth, 
for  the  hours  are  precious  ;  others  have  now  claims 
on  my  time." 

The  sound  of  footsteps  was  heard  in  the  anteroom, 
and  the  monk,  stifling  his  agitation,  took  a  hasty 
leave.  Uneasy  at  being  thus  hurried  away,  he  re 
gretted  having  been  thrown  off  his  guard,  and  re 
solved  to  lose  not  an  instant  in  hastening  back  to 
Charles,  and  watching  for  the  propitious  moment  to 
accomplish  his  own  purposes,  by  the  hand  of  anoth 
er.  "  If  Joanna  prove  a  feeble  and  fickle  woman," 
he  thought,  "  and  yield  all  required  homage  to  this 
proud  pontiff,  she  will  escape  me  yet !  He  will  not 
scruple  to  play  me  false."  Miserable  with  the  doubts 
and  anxieties  that  harass  a  bosom  on  whose  schemes 
the  blessing  of  Heaven  cannot  be  invoked,  and  feel 
ing  how  little  reliance  the  unprincipled  can  place 
on  each  other,  Matteo  da  Villani  hurried  from  the 
dark  precincts  of  the  Vatican  ;  and  as  day  broke 
over  the  Sabine  hills,  it  lighted  him  and  his  small 
train  along  the  melancholy  wastes  of  the  Pontine 
marshes. 


242  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

IT  was  on  the  afternoon  of  the  twenty-fifth  of 
August,  that  Joanna  ascended  the  walls  of  the  Cas- 
tell  Nuovo,  with  a  languid  step,  to  look  once  more 
sorrowfully  over  the  bay,  for  "  hope  deferred  "  had 
almost  settled  into  the  sickness  of  despair.  Day  by 
day  she  had  seen  misery  deepening  in  the  haggard 
countenances  of  those  about  her  ;  and  now,  as  she 
passed,  every  eye  rolled  upon  her  glassy  and  vacant ; 
every  cheek  was  hollow  with  want ;  and  as  the  wom 
en  and  children  sometimes  held  out  their  meagre 
hands  to  her,  silently  imploring  the  succour  she  could 
not  give,  she  turned  from  them  hopelessly  to  the 
warriors,  whose  gaunt  limbs  and  unsteady  steps  told 
as  fearful  a  tale  of  the  sufferings  their  own  stronger 
frames  endured.  She  had  pledged  herself  to  surren 
der  on  the  twenty-sixth,  if  the  expected  aid  from 
Provence  should  not  arrive  ;  and  clinging  to  thalast 
slender  chance  of  relief,  she  riveted  her  gaze  on  the 
too  familiar  entrance  of  the  harbour,  with  an  inten 
sity  that  sometimes  almost  seemed  to  conjure  up  the 
dim  outlines  of  objects  she  longed  to  behold. 

It  was  while  thus  absorbed,  and  striving  to  real 
ize  that  the  last  sun  of  her  freedom  was  sinking  rap 
idly  in  the  western  skies,  that  she  was  roused  by  a 
moan  near  her.  She  had  been  too  much  accustomed 
of  late  to  sounds  of  woe  to  be  easily  startled  ;  but 


JOANNA    OF   NAPLES.  243 

this  was  like  the  last  faint  groan  of  dissolution  ;  and 
turning  hastily,  she  perceived  a  wretched  object 
lying  in  the  shadow  of  a  turret  near  her.  It  was  an 
elderly  female,  whose  features  were  drawn  out  and 
sharpened  by  the  pangs  of  hunger  and  the  approach 
of  death.  Her  head  was  supported  by  a  pale,  thin 
youth,  who  occasionally  wiped  the  damps  from  her 
forehead,  and,  as  he  stooped  forward  to  watch  the 
life  coming  and  going  in  her  fixed  eyes,  was  uncon 
scious  of  the  queen's  approach.  Joanna  had  as  yet 
heard  of  no  actual  death  from  starvation  in  her  gar 
rison  ;  and  struck  to  the  heart  by  this  spectacle,  she 
involuntarily  drew  near,  and  stood  before  the  expir 
ing  woman.  For  a  moment  she  was  recognized ;  the 
poor  sufferer  made  a  feeble  effort  to  raise  her  head 
and  stretch  out  her  bony  hand,  whispering,  "  It  is  the 
queen,  our  good  queen."  The  young  man  looked 
up,  but  did  not  move  ;  and  after  a  momentary  re 
lapse,  the  woman  again  uttered,  falteringly,  "  Serve 
her,  Giovanni !  I  charge  you,  my  son,  serve  our 
good  Joanna  !  " 

The  queen  was  choked  with  emotion,  as  she  heard 
these  words  of  affection  from  a  subject,  dying  so  mis 
erable  a  death  at  her  very  feet  ;  and  again  she  felt, 
as  she  had  often  done,  the  littleness  of  all  human 
power.  She  was  still  a  queen,  —  still  an  object  of 
veneration  to  this  departing  spirit  ;  but  not  in  her 
proudest  days  could  she  have  stayed  its  flight  one 
moment.  It  might  be  some  such  consciousness  that 
floated  through  the  mind  of  the  young  Giovanni  ; 


244  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

for  after  the  first  glance,  he  seemed  to  forget  the 
presence  of  majesty,  until  Joanna,  unable  to  look 
idly  on  the  convulsive  spasms  of  the  dying  woman, 
turned  hastily  away,  and  commanded  an  attendant  to 
bring  food,  if  it  were  the  last  crumb  in  the  fortress. 

The  youth  then,  impatiently  moving  his  hand,  ex 
claimed,  "  No !  no  !  it  is  too  late  !  "  It  was  indeed  ; 
in  another  moment,  his  mother  again,  as  with  her 
last  struggle,  said  more  distinctly,  "  Serve  her,  my  - 
son,  for  she  has  been  good  to  us  !  "  and  then  turning 
to  his  breast,  drew  her  limbs  upwards  with  a  shiver, 
and  after  a  few  gasps,  ceased  to  breathe. 

The  cry,  which  seemed  to  break  from  the  heart  of 
the  youth,  rang  terribly  in  the  ears  of  the  queen,  and 
incapable  of  speaking  consolation  amidst  the  first 
bursts  of  filial  sorrow,  she  retired  at  once  to  her 
apartments,  and  herself  gave  directions  respecting 
fitting  burial  for  the  body.  It  had  seemed  to  her 
that  those  emaciated  features  had  not  been  unknown 
to  her  in  former  days  ;  and  when  at  sunset  her  at 
tendants  informed  her  that  the  youth  requested  per 
mission  to  see  her,  she  eagerly  ordered  him  to  be  ad 
mitted  into  her  presence.  He  was  scarcely  eighteen  ; 
and  his  hunger-stricken  countenance  betrayed  that 
youthful  vigor  alone  had  enabled  him  to  sustain  the 
fearful  ordeal  under  which  his  mother  had  sunk.  He 
was  now  calm,  though  the  traces  of  sorrow  remained 
on  his  swollen  eyelids.  His  soiled  but  once  costly 
apparel  showed  him  to  be  no  menial  ;  and  the  mod 
est  courtesy  with  which  he  thanked  the  queen  for 


JOANNA    OF   NAPLES.  245 

her  kindness  was  that  of  one  who  had  been  accus 
tomed  to  approach  personages  of  high  rank.  His 
face,  too,  had  in  it  something  familiar  ;  and  Joanna 
sought  in  vain  to  recall  when  and  where  she  had 
seen  him.  "  I  cannot  forget  my  mother's  last  words, 
so  long  as  I  have  breath,"  said  he,  with  a  faltering 
voice.  "  She  bade  me  serve  you  ;  to-morrow  may 
take  away  the  power  ;  and  I  have  come  to  ask  your 
Majesty,  if  it  be  indeed  possible  that  I  may  obey  her 
commands." 

"  Tell  me  first,"  said  the  queen,  "  who  is  the  faith 
ful  son  and  true  subject,  that  forsakes  neither  his 
mother  nor  his  queen  in  their  adversity  ?  " 

"  I  was  a  beardless  boy  when  your  Majesty  last 
saw  me,  but  suffering  hath  changed  me  more  than 
time.  My  mother  has  often  told  me  how,  at  the 
close  of  the  terrible  pestilence,  you  reentered  Naples 
from  your  exile  ;  and  how  you  passed  one  day,  like  a 
radiant  angel,  all  pomp,  youth,  and  beauty,  through 
the  street  where  she  lived,  when  my  father  fell  smit 
ten  by  the  destroying  angel  on  his  own  threshold  ; 
how  your  attendants  stood  back  terrified,  while  you 
came  down  from  your  palfrey,  and  courageously  held 
water  from  a  neighbouring  fountain  to  his  lips,  and 
spoke  comfort  to  her  ;  and  how  you  protected  the 
widowed  and  fatherless,  when  his  corpse  was  thrown 
into  the  dreadful  pit.  Have  you  forgotten  that,  when 
you  discovered  her  to  be  of  gentle  birth,  you  gave 
her  a  place  among  the  attendants  of  your  own  lovely 
infant  ? " 

21* 


246  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

"  I  remember  it  all,"  cried  Joanna.  "  When  God 
smote  my  child  in  its  cradle  with  sudden  and  mys 
terious  death,  I  came  back  from  the  gorgeous  cere 
monies  of  my  coronation  to  forget  its  splendor  in 
the  rosy  smiles  of  the  darling  whom  I  left  slumber 
ing  in  perfect  health,  and  your  mother  stood  sobbing 
over  its  lifeless  clay  !  I  have  not  seen  her  for  years 
past,  but  could  I  forget  her  ?  " 

"Your  bounty  reached  her,"  said  the  youth,  "and 
for  me  you  provided  nobly." 

The  queen's  countenance  changed.  "  I  recognize 
you  too,"  said  she;  "I  procured  you  an  appointment 
in  the  household  of  my  son,  —  of  Charles  of  Du-, 
razzo.  You  were  his  page,  I  think  ?  " 

"  I  am  so,"  replied  Giovanni. 

"  And  what  do  you  here  ?  "  asked  the  queen  has 
tily. 

"  When  my  master  approached  Naples,"  said  the 
page,  "  I  hurried  forward  to  protect  my  mother.  I 
found  her  feeble  from  recent  illness,  and  she  re 
proached  me  because  I  did  not  forsake  him  for  his 
treachery  to  you.  I  could  not !  I  could  not !  for  to 
me  he  has  been  a  noble  and  kind  master,  and  I  love 
him.  The  people  fled  in  all  directions,  and  she  con 
jured  me  to  bring  her  hither.  We  entered  with  the 
throng,  and  I  staid  to  soothe  her  sufferings,  —  to  sup 
port  her  while  I  could,  —  to  see  her  die  at  last.  And 
now  I  would  go  back  to  my  kind,  generous,  mis 
guided  prince." 

Joanna  sat  a  few  moments  lost  in  thought ;  and 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  247 

then  suddenly  repeating  his  last  words,  — "  Mis 
guided  prince !  alas  !  alas  !  "  — she  strove  to  repress  a 
groan. 

Giovanni  spoke  not,  but  his  varying  countenance 
expressed  shame  for  the  master  he  adored,  and  re 
spectful  compassion  for  the  injured  sovereign  before 
him.  At  last  he  inquired  timidly,  "  Is  there  no  way 
in  which  the  page  of  Durazzo  can  aid  the  queen  of 
Naples  ?  You  will  not  bid  me  leave  him." 

"  No,  no  !  "  cried  Joanna  ;  "  God  forbid  that  those 
to  whom  he  may  have  shown  kindness  should  prove 
ungrateful  !  May  that  punishment  never  wring  his 
heart !  Go  to  him,  faithful  boy,  and  serve  him  so 
far  as  you  can  innocently,  through  joy  and  sorrow, 
through  the  deceitful  hours  of  guilty  prosperity,  and 
the  dreadful  season  of  retribution.  /  ask  no  other 
kindness  at  your  hands." 

The  youth  burst  into  tears,  and  sunk  on  his  knee 
before  her  ;  it  was  the  homage  of  uncorrupted  feel 
ings  to  her  virtue  rather  than  her  rank;  and  Joanna's 
dry  and  burning  eyes  were  moistened  with  an  emo 
tion  most  grateful  in  the  midst  of  her  afflictions. 
"  Is  there  nothing,  —  nothing  I  can  do  for  my  august 
sovereign  ?  I  would  fain  perform  somewhat  that  I 
may  be  glad  to  remember  when  I  am  a  man,  —  some 
service  to  her  personally." 

The  queen  shook  her  head  ;  but  as  the  youth  rose, 
something  crossed  her  mind,  and  she  exclaimed,  — 
"  Yes,  stay  !  My  poor  husband  !  —  we  may  never 
meet  again,  and  a  line  from  my  own  hand  would 


248  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

cheer  his  brave  heart !  Giovanni,  will  you  leave  the 
honored  remains  of  your  mother  under  my  charge  ? 
There  are  priests  in  the  fortress  and  her  dust  shall 
not  be  neglected.  I  will  have  masses  said  for  her 
soul.  But  speed  you  forth  this  very  night  into  the 
city  to  rejoin  your  master  ;  and  find  means  to  bear 
one  farewell  word  from  your  unfortunate  queen  to 
her  husband.  Will  you  undertake  it  ?  "  The  young 
man  hesitated,  and  she  added,  —  "I  would  not  have 
you  peril  your  life,  and  you  know  best  yourself  with 
what  risks  the  enterprise  may  be  fraught.  I  do  not 
urge  it." 

"  It  is  not  of  my  life  I  am  thinking,"  said  Giovan 
ni,  "but  of  my  honor ;  yet  I  know  not  that  I  should 
pass  the  bounds  of  duty  to  my  master  in  fulfilling 
your  request.  My  mother's  dying  words  are  in  my 
ears,  and  I  will  obey  them  at  all  hazards." 

The  queen  paused  a  little  longer  for  reflection  ; 
and  then,  turning  to  a  table,  where  lay  her  writing 
implements,  she  penned  a  hasty  note  of  affection  to 
Otho,  apprising  him  of  her  approaching  capitulation, 
and  bidding  him  a  solemn  farewell ;  for  she  felt  that 
her  future  destiny  was  darkened  by  the  prospect  of  a 
long  separation.  Giovanni  departed  at  twilight,  and 
by  the  queen's  command  was  permitted  egress  from 
the  castle  through  one  of  the  subterranean  passages 
leading  to  the  water's  edge.  We  need  not  follow 
him ;  it  is  sufficient  to  say,  that,  having  presented 
himself  to  his  princely  master,  with  whom  he  was 
deservedly  a  favorite,  and  explained  his  absence,  he 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  249 

found  means  to  convey  the  letter  of  Joanna  into  the 
enemy's  camp,  and  to  the  hands  of  Otho,  before  day 
break.  Meantime  the  queen  forgot  not  her  promise 
with  regard  to  the  poor  woman  who  had  died  in  her 
presence ;  and  on  the  last  evening  of  her  cruel  siege, 
the  most'  solemn  services  of  religion  were  performed 
in  the  Castell  Nuovo,  by  those  who  felt  that,  if  relief 
were  not  at  hand,  their  own  enfeebled  limbs  might 
next  lie  down  in  the  grave. 

Few  slept  in  the  wretched  garrison  on  that  night. 
Reduced  to  the  last  extremity,  many  of  the  famish 
ing  wandered  about  ceaselessly,  hushing  the  moans 
of  their  children,  watching  the  slow  march  of  the 
stars,  and,  as  the  hours  wore  on,  casting  many  an 
impatient  glance  to  the  east.  The  faintest  silver 
light  was  breaking  over  the  hills,  when  Joanna  left 
a  couch  haunted  by  horrid  dreams,  and  went  up  for 
the  last  time  among  her  people,  — few  and  faithful,  — 
to  survey  the  uprising  of  the  sun  which  would  prob 
ably  light  her  into  captivity.  All  night  long  she  had 
been  tormented  with  visions  of  blood,  or  with  phan 
tasmagoria  of  the  ghastly  faces  that  met  her  by  day ; 
and  as  the  pale  dawn  of  the  fatal  twenty-sixth  of 
August  gave  them  again  to  her  view,  hovering  along 
the  walls  like  spectres,  she  shuddered,  and  felt  that 
any  fate  to  her  would  be  welcome,  which  might  save 
these  unhappy  creatures  from  the  slow  and  torturing 
death  of  famine.  As  the  eastern  horizon  grew  bright 
er  and  brighter,  she  had  not  the  heart  to  look,  as  she 
had  once  done,  on  that  gorgeous  spectacle,  which 


250  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

never  wearies  the  eyes  of  the  happy;  but,  turning  to 
the  sea,  vacantly  contemplated  the  harbour,  and 
Capri  rising  dimly  on  the  southern  verge.  Her 
thoughts  were  no  longer  on  the  promised  aid  from 
France  ;  treachery  had  beset  her  all  her  life  long, 
and  Durazzo  had  blighted  the  last  remaining  germs 
of  her  confidence  in  mortal  man.  "  Gay  Provence 
has  forgotten  me,"  said  she  to  herself;  "the  mild 
and  affable  Clement  will  not  aid  me  ;  Anjou  is  too 
busy  with  his  own  pressing  cares.  There  is  no  man 
living  that  can  or  will  strike  one  blow  more  for  the 
liberties  of  Naples  or  its  deserted  queen  !  Even  my 
husband  has  not  the  power  to  help  me,  or  knows  not 
how  critical  is  the  emergency.  O  Charles  !  the  bit 
terness  of  all  bitterness  is  to  feel  that  thou  hast  made 
my  misery  !  —  that  in  two  short  hours  more,  thy  un 
natural  crime  will  be  consummated,  and  I  shall  be 
hurled  from  the  throne  by  the  very  hands  I  have  so 
often  clasped  in  mine,  when  thou  wast  like  a  loving 
son  to  me.  —  an  innocent,  affectionate,  true-hearted 
boy  !  Shall  I  not  awake,  and  find  it  all  a  terrible 
dream  ?  " 

The  time  had  indeed  been  fixed  at  two  hours  past 
sunrise,  when  the  Castell  Nuovo  was  to  be  yielded, 
without  condition,  into  the  power  of  Durazzo  ;  and 
though  Joanna  did  not  face  the  east,  she  knew  when 
the  glorious  luminary  had  lifted  himself  above  the 
Apennines  ;  his  rays  shot  across  the  city  and  bay, 
and  gilding  the  ridge  of  Posilipo,  called,  as  it  were, 
into  bright  existence  its  wooded  heights  and  white 


JOANNA   OF  NAPLES.  251 

villas.  Still  she  sat  motionless  ;  her  officers  silently 
gathered  about  her  ;  and  from  the  various  subterra 
nean  passages  and  cells  of  the  fortress  its  whole  wan 
and  trembling  population  came  pouring  up,  as  if  the 
graves  were  yielding  their  dead.  The  walls  next  the 
city  were  lined  with  them,  standing,  sitting,  or  lying, 
as  their  strength  permitted,  in  mute  expectation.  A 
clock  struck  in  a  neighbouring  church  ;  it  was  the 
only  one  in  Naples,  and  still  a  new  thing  on  the 
earth,  and  men,  not  yet  familiar  with  it,  felt,  when 
that  solemn  voice  came  forth  on  the  air,  as  if  Time 
himself  spoke  to  them,  while  he  sped  on  his  awful 
course.  Even  the  queen  started  at  the  sound,  and 
withdrew  her  sad  contemplations  from  the  monastery 
of  San  Martino,  the  object  of  her  munificence  in 
happier  days.  Battista  recalled  her  attention  to  the 
same  quarter,  however,  by  pointing  out  something 
about  the  castle  of  St.  Elmo,  which  frowned  on  the 
heights  just  above  it  ;  and  with  looks  of  surprise, 
she  conferred  with  her  officers  for  some  moments  be 
fore  she  left  the  walls.  She  retired  to  her  private 
apartment,  as  the  hour  of  surrender  arrived  ;  but 
Luca  di  Battista  followed  shortly,  to  inform  her  that, 
though  the  city  was  evidently  in  commotion,  no  one 
approached  the  fortress.  "  The  passage  leading  into 
the  Strada  di  Toledo  is  deserted,"  said  he  ;  "  we 
see  armed  men  continually  passing  and  repassing 
across  it  at  a  distance,  and  there  is  a  sound  of  tumult 
that  increases  every  moment  ;  but  we  seem  to  be 
forgotten." 


252  JOANNA  OF  NAPLES. 

The  queen,  who  had  assumed  a  noble  composure, 
now  became  agitated.  "  I  believe  you  were  right," 
said  she  ;  u  that  brave  boy  kept  his  word  with  me 
last  night,  and  Otho  is  roused  to  an  effort  that  may 
cost  him  dear." 

"  He  must  have  attacked  the  city,"  returned  the 
Baron  ;  "  I  know  of  nothing  else  that  could  with 
draw  the  attention  of  the  enemy  at  this  moment. 
Courage,  my  queen  !  We  may  be  saved  !  " 

"No,  — no,"  replied  Joanna  ;  "  do  not  excite  false 
hopes,  my  good  Baron  ;  it  is  the  alternation  of  hope 
and  despair  that  frets  out  the  heartstrings.  Had  the 
galleys  from  Provence  arrived,  a  general  onset  from 
without  might  have  done  me  good  service  ;  and  for 
that  advantage  Otho  has  no  doubt  waited  ;  but  the 
news  of  my  unhappy  condition  has  driven  him  on  a 
desperate  measure.  He  will  fail ;  my  heart  forebodes 
nothing  but  evil." 

"  Nay,"  exclaimed  the  nobleman  ;  "  think  better 
of  it.  Your  Majesty  is  worn  down  with  fasting 
and  anxiety,  and  they  make  even,  men  prone  to 
despond." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Joanna  sadly.  "  The  weakness 
of  this  frail  tabernacle  of  clay  does  strangely  debili 
tate  the  nobler  tenant  within.  I  will  repair  once 
more  to  the  walls." 

As  she  approached  a  flight  of  steps,  leading  from 
a  court  up  to  the  ramparts,  a  large  hound,  still  stately 
in  his  proportions,  though  extenuated  by  famine, 
crawled  towards  her,  whining  and  feebly  making 


JOAXXA    OF   NAPLES.  253 

demonstrations  of  joy  at  seeing  her.  He  had  be 
longed  to  her  husband,  and  had  once  saved  his  mas 
ter's  life  in  a  boar-hunt  ;  and  though  not  another 
animal  in  the  fortress  had  been  spared,  Joanna  had 
given  orders  that  this  faithful  creature  should  not  be 
slaughtered  till  the  last  extremity.  He  had  not  tasted 
food  for  three  days ;  and  as  he  looked  up  expressively 
in  her  face,  with  his  large,  imploring  eyes,  the  Baron 
said,  —  "  Methinks  it  were  greater  humanity  to  knock 
the  poor  beast  on  the  head,  than  let  him  die  by  inch 
es.  Starving  is  an  ugly  death." 

The  queen  looked  irresolute  ;  she  passed  her  hand 
over  his  long,  velvet  ears,  and  as  he  stooped  his  head 
to  receive  the  caress,  the  gold  collar  which  her  hus 
band  had  playfully  fastened  round  his  neck,  as  the 
reward  of  his  bravery,  caught  her  eye.  "  No  !  "  she 
exclaimed,  turning  away  ;  "  I  have  not  the  heart  to 
give  such  an  order.  Live  on,  a  few  hours  longer, 
poor  Braricone,  and  thou  shalt  have  a  new  master. 
Di  Battista,  he  that  will  enter  this  castle  to-day  as 
a  victor  loves  a  noble  dog,  and  will  feed  the  hound, 
though  he  starve  the  mistress." 

"  Ay,"  said  Di  Battista  to  himself;  "  the  dog  hath 
no  crown  to  be  coveted." 

They  mounted  to  the  walls ;  and  as  Joanna  seated 
herself  where  she  could  look  down  into  the  square 
between  the  castle  and  the  city,  she  felt  something 
touch  her  hand.  It  was  the  dog,  who  had  followed 
her  with  difficulty  ;  and  as  she  bade  him  couch  at 
her  feet,  obedient  to  the  last,  he  lay,  or  rather  fell, 


254  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

down  before  her,  and  stretching  forth  his  limbs,  tried 
to  forget,  in  uneasy  sleep,  the  hunger  that  gnawed 
his  vitals. 

In  the  mean  time  the  clashing  of  weapons  came 
now  distinctly  on  the  breeze,  and  as  the  inhabitants 
of  the  castle  stood  listening  breathlessly,  wonder  and 
anxiety  were  on  every  face.  At  times  the  skirmish 
seemed  to  recede,  and  then  it  approached  again  ;  but 
nearly  an  hour  elapsed,  before  any  token  of  the  bat 
tle  presented  itself.  Suddenly  shouts  were  heard 
more  plainly.  A  cloud  of  dust  was  seen  rising  above 
the  houses  in  the  Strada  di  Toledo.  It  advanced 
slowly,  and  at  last  a  tumultuous  throng  appeared  at 
the  foot  of  the  street,  leading  from  that  main  thor 
oughfare  of  Naples  to  the  square  before  the  Castell 
Nuovo.  Half  veiled  in  dust,  and  engaged  in  furious 
conflict,  they  came  on  ;  but  it  was  plain  that  every 
inch  of  ground  was  contested,  and  the  progress  of 
the  party  struggling  to  reach  the  castle  was  tardy. 

Frantic  with  joy  and  reviving  hope,  Luca  di  Bat- 
tista  summoned  his  feeble  band  of  archers  to  their 
posts  ;  and  though  it  was  evident  that  scarcely  a 
dozen  had  strength  to  draw  the  longbow,  he  pre 
pared  boldly  to  aid  the  approaching  friends,  and  ex 
claimed  again  and  again  to  the  queen,  —  "  Courage, 
my  noble  mistress  !  they  fight  like  lions  !  We  shall 
open  the  gates  to  them  presently." 

The  queen  did  not  remove  her  eyes  from  the 
scene,  but,  still  sorrowful  in  aspect,  only  answered,  — 
"  They  bring  us  no  bread." 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  255 

"  But  they  open  a  passage  through  the  enemy," 
cried  the  sanguine  warrior  ;  "  they  will  find  means 
to  throw  in  provisions,  or  set  us  free,  trust  me  !  " 

At  this  moment,  a  single  knight,  mounted  on  a 
powerful  hay  horse,  burst  through  all  opposition,  and 
waving  his  bloody  sword  above  his  head,  came  gal 
loping  into  the  square.  The  white  and  silver  scarf 
about  his  body,  despite  its  crimson  stains,  showed 
that  he  belonged  to  the  queen's  friends ;  and  Di  Bat- 
tista  shouted  loudly  and  incessantly  to  the  men  at 
the  gates  to  open  them  and  push  forward  the  draw 
bridge.  Before  the  brave  knight  could  reach  the 
moat,  however,  several  of  the  enemy  dashed  after 
him  into  the  square  ;  and  as  he  turned  to  defend 
himself,  still  backing  his  horse  towards  the  castle, 
their  strokes  rained  upon  every  part  of  his  armour. 
The  flash  of  weapons  in  the  broad  sunlight  was  daz 
zling  to  the  beholders,  but  he  who  fought  single- 
handed  against  such  fearful  odds  lost  not  his  pres 
ence  of  mind  for  an  instant ;  —  plunging  his  sword 
into  a  crevice  in  the  armour  of  one  antagonist,  he 
drew  it  forth  reeking ;  then,  suddenly  wheeling  about, 
he  dexterously  hamstrung  the  steed  of  another  rider, 
who  came  heavily  to  the  ground,  and  left  him  for  a 
moment  unmolested.  He  again  pushed  towards  the 
drawbridge,  but  in  vain  ;  the  enemy  were  upon  him. 
Two  spurred  between  him  and  the  castle,  and  not  a 
follower  of  his  own  had  yet  emerged  from  the  street  ; 
his  headlong  valor  had  led  him  beyond  their  assist 
ance  ;  but,  without  a  shout  or  a  word,  he  defended 


256  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

himself  manfully.  The  archers  discharged  their 
arrows  from  the  battlements ;  but  many  of  them 
dropped  short  of  the  mark,  and  others  fell  impotent- 
ly,  as  if  sent  by  the  hands  of  children,  against  the 
helmets  and  shields  of  the  assailants.  Luca  di  Bat- 
tista  raged  like  a  chained  tiger;  and  crying,^' Give 
me  a  crossbow,  —  it  brings  the  strong  and  the  weak 
on  a  level,"  he  seized  a  huge  arbalist,  and  prepared 
to  discharge  it  with  his  own  hands.  The  queen, 
meantime,  had  watched  every  movement  below  with 
the  most  intense  interest  ;  she  had  started  up  as  the 
knight  entered  the  square,  and  standing  with  clasped 
hands  and  blanched  lips,  her  garments  fluttering  in 
the  breeze,  she  seemed  almost  ready  to  leap  wildly 
into  the  fearful  scene.  Once  or  twice  she  exclaimed, 
"  WhoNis  he,  Di  Battista  ?  do  you  not  know  him  ?  " 

"  No,  not  I,"  cried  the  Baron  ;  "  he  is  a  brave  man, 
bear  he  what  name  he  may ;  —  and  we  will  have  him 
among  us,  please  Heaven." 

The  unknown  warrior  was  now  within  a  few 
yards  of  the  moat,  and  once,  for  a  single  instant,  he 
looked  up  at  the  spot  where  the  queen  stood  ;  but 
through  his  closed  visor  she  could  not  discern  his 
features.  "  Yet  it  must  be  he  !  it  can  be  none  else  !  " 
she  whispered  to  herself;  and  the  blood  rushed  joy 
fully  to  her  face,  as  she  perceived  several  knights  in 
white  and  silver  scarfs  present  themselves  at  the  en 
trance  of  the  square.  It  retreated  upon  her  heart 
again,  however,  as  a  huge  soldier,  already  unhelmet- 
ed  in  the  conflict,  and  gashed  on  one  cheek,  ap- 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  257 

preached  the  solitary  combatant,  whose  attention 
was  again  for  a  moment  drawn  off,  by  the  appear 
ance  of  his  followers.  The  man  raised  his  immense 
battle-axe  unheeded,  as  the  warrior,  sending  forth 
his  voice  for  the  first  time,  shouted  to  his  knights  to 
come  on.  No  sooner  was  that  voice  heard,  than  the 
hound,  who  had  been  lying,  apparently  unable  to 
stir,  by  the  side  of  Joanna,  uttered  a  cry,  and  get 
ting  on  his  feet  with  difficulty,  crawled  to  the  very 
edge  of  the  wall.  He  gazed  down  earnestly  a  mo 
ment,  then,  raising  his  head,  snuffed  the  breeze,  and 
having  uttered  a  few  moans,  as  if  conscious  of  the 
danger,  he  sprang  down  into  the  moat.  Too  feeble 
to  swim,  he  struggled  but  a  few  instants,  and  sunk  in 
the  stagnant  waters.  This  last  display  of  fidelity  in 
poor  Brancone  told  Joanna  too  plainly  who  was  the 
heroic  knight ;  her  agony  of  suspense  was  already 
dreadful,  and  a  shriek  broke  from  her  lips,  as  Luca 
di  Battista  discharged  an  immense  javelin  from  his 
crossbow.  At  the  precise  instant  that  it  left  the  bow, 
aimed  at  the  man  who  wielded  the  battle-axe,  the 
beset  knight  perceived  his  danger,  and  to  avoid  the 
blow  levelled  at  his  crest,  checked  his  steed,  who  in 
rearing  intercepted  the  weapon  from  the  walls.  It 
pierced  his  shoulder ;  the  noble  animal  made  a  plunge 
forward,  and  thus  exposed  the  head  of  his  rider  to 
the  fatal  stroke  of  the  battle-axe.  It  descended,  — 
the  helmet  gave  way,  —  and  the  light  German  hair 
and  manly  features  of  Otho  were  exposed  to  view, 
as  he  was  dashed  senseless  to  the  ground ! 
22* 


258  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

Joanna  knew  nothing  more.  For  the  first  time  in 
her  life  she  fainted  away  utterly,  and  was  carried 
down  to  her  apartment. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

THK  desperate  valor  of  Otho  was  wasted  ;  with 
his  fall  ceased  the  conflict.  Slain,  wounded,  or  made 
prisoners,  his  troops  suffered  severely  from  the  enter 
prise  ;  and  before  noonday  the  ruin  of  Joanna  was 
decided,  her  last  hope  destroyed.  She  bore  the  in 
telligence  with  fortitude,  however.  On  recovering 
from  her  swoon,  she  learned  that  her  husband  still 
lived,  though  wounded,  and  in  the  power  of  the 
enemy ;  and  after  a  few  hours'  retirement,  she  nerved 
herself  to  endure  an  interview  with  her  conqueror. 

It  was  in  the  coolest  and  loveliest  hour  of  the  day, 
when  the  land-breeze  blew  refreshingly  from  the 
hills,  and  the  sun  was  sinking  peacefully  towards 
the  horizon,  that  the  immense  gates  of  the  Castell 
Nuovo  were  set  open,  its  broad  moat  bridged  for  the 
adversary's  tread,  and  the  square  before  it  filled  with 
armed  men.  Durazzo  himself  first  planted  his  foot 
on  that  bridge,  but  it  was  with  a  downcast  eye.  Then 
came  on  rank  after  rank  of  silent  soldiery,  following 
under  the  dark,  massive  archway,  which,  flanked 
with  huge,  round  towers,  seemed  built  to  endure  for 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  259 

ages.     As  they  entered  the  court  and  filed  to   the 
risht  and  left,  before  them  stood  the  small  and  half- 

O  ' 

starved  garrison  of  Joanna,  their  visors  up,  and 
their  ghastly  countenances  bearing  dreadful  testimo 
ny  to  the  sufferings  they  had  endured  ;  while  at 
every  loophole,  and  at  the  doors  of  dark  passages, 
were  dimly  seen  innumerable  faces  of  women  and 
children  still  more  emaciated  with  want.  From  the 
centre  of  the  little  group  of  soldiers  advanced  Luca 
di  Battista,  himself  pale  with  fasting  and  sleepless 
nights,  but  with  an  aspect  so  haughty  and  stern, 
that,  as  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  approaching  victor, 
they  spoke  the  contempt  which  he  felt  in  his  soul  ; 
and  an  observer,  ignorant  of  the  truth,  would  have 
reversed  the  relative  position  of  the  two  warriors. 
Di  Battista  might  have  been  taken  for  the  spirit  of 
the  fierce  Charles  of  Anjou,  the  builder  of  the  cas 
tle,  rising  from  his  grave  in  anger  at  the  ingrate  who 
came  to  rend  her  inheritance  from  his  fair  descend 
ant.  The  step  of  Durazzo  had  lost  its  martial  firm 
ness  ;  it  was  slow  and  unequal  ;  he  changed  color 
every  moment,  and  with  a  trembling  hand,  without 
looking  him  in  the  face,  he  received  from  Di  Battista 
the  massy  keys  of  the  fortress,  and  hastily  delivered 
them  to  an  officer,  who  was  to  be  its  commander. 

This  slight  ceremony  over,  the  troops  of  Durazzo 
were  dispersed  to  their  respective  positions  along  the 
deserted  walls,  which  soon  bristled  on  every  point 
with  lances  and  spears  ;  and  the  native  humanity  of 
Charles's  disposition,  chilled  but  not  frozen  by  a  self- 


260  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

ish  ambition,  manifested  itself  in  the  next  arrange 
ment.  Wagons,  loaded  with  provision,  came  creak 
ing  through  the  gateway,  and  the  sufferings  of  the 
famished  were  at  an  end.  The  chief  seneschal  of 
Joanna,  with  several  of  the  officers  usually  in  at 
tendance  on  her  person,  then  appeared,  to  conduct 
Durazzo  to  her  presence.  They  had  reached  the 
spacious  antechamber  to  her  apartment,  when  the 
confessor  of  the  prince,  suddenly  arriving  at  the 
Castell  Nuovo,  followed  him  without  hesitation,  and 
overtook  him  as  he  crossed  its  threshold.  The  monk 
had  been  absent  for  a  few  days,  and  had  returned  to 
Naples  at  the  critical  moment  when  the  troops  were 
marching  into  the  fortress  ;  and  on  learning  that  an 
interview  was  to  take  place  between  the  conqueror 
and  the  conquered,  he  lost  not  a  moment.  Without 
staying  to  shake  the  dust  of  travel  from  his  dress, 
he  hurried  unceremoniously  through  the  knightly 
throng,  that  pressed  towards  the  anteroom  to  catch 
a  glimpse  of  a  queen  so  celebrated ;  and,  coming  up 
with  the  prince  as  he  entered  the  lofty  apartment 
where  Joanna  had  proposed  to  receive  him,  he  laid 
his  hand  hastily  on  his  arm.  "  My  son  !  my  son  !  " 
said  he,  "  what  are  you  doing  ?  Did  I  not  caution 
you  ?  Did  I  not  warn  you  ?  " 

"  I  know  it,"  replied  Durazzo  ;  "  but  how  can  I 
shrink  from  the  presence  of  a  woman  ?  I  would 
rather  mount  the  scaffold  than  meet  her  eye ;  but  she 
demands  to  see  me,  and  on  what  plea  can  I  refuse  a 
boon  so  trifling  ?  " 


JOANNA    OF   NAPLES.  261 

"  Tush  !  folly,  —  folly  !  "  ejaculated  the  priest ; 
"  step  hither  and  hear  me."  He  drew  the  prince 
aside,  and,  with  earnest  gestures  and  indefatigable 
perseverance,  used  every  argument  in  his  power  to 
dissuade  him  from  holding  the  purposed  colloquy. 
He  was  but  too  eloquently  aided  by  something  in 
Durazzo's  own  bosom;  who,  conscience-stricken,  and 
ashamed  of  the  position  in  which  he  stood  towards 
the  queen,  trembled  as  he  entered  the  stately  halls 
of  the  Angevins,  and  approached  her  on  whom  he 
was  inflicting  wrongs  so  base. 

"  It  were  better  that  we  should  not  meet,  I  ac 
knowledge,"  said  he  ;  "  but  now  that  I  stand  almost 
in  her  presence,  —  now  that  I  have  intruded  on  the 
sanctity  of  the  royal  apartments,  and  have  warned 
her  of  my  approach,  —  it  were  unknightly  rudeness, 
methinks,  and  most  unbecoming  in  a  generous  con 
queror,  to  turn  from  her,  as  with  mere  wanton  ca 
price." 

"  Idle,  boyish  scruples  !  "  exclaimed  Father  Mat- 
teo.  "  Said  I  not  so  ?  I  knew  that  the  very  air  she 
breathed  would  unman  you;  your  brave  knights  will 
yet  look  on,  with  scornful  smiles,  to  see  their  hero 
caught  in  the  snares  of  this  Jezebel.  Go  forth  from 
these  enchanted  chambers,  my  son,  if  you  are  not 
already  spellbound  and  nerveless,  and  leave  me  to 
deal  with  her  who  is  your  deadliest  enemy.  I  will 
bring  you  her  demands ;  her  smooth  accents  and 
boasted  eloquence  will  find  another  hearer  than  the 
purchaser  of  Avignon.  I  pray  you  have  mercy  on 


262  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

yourself,  my  prince,  and  begone  from  these  danger 
ous  walls.  The  house  of  Anjou  totters  at  your 
touch,  but  you  may  be  crushed  in  its  ruins,  if  you 
will  not  be  counselled." 

Perturbed  and  uncertain  what  course  to  pursue, 
still  accustomed  to  be  governed  by  the  voice  that  ad 
dressed  him  so  authoritatively,  Charles  actually  turned 
to  retire  ;  when  the  double  doors  at  the  upper  end 
of  the  hall  were  thrown  open,  and  a  dazzling  vision 
presented  itself.  Joanna  stood  before  him,  in  the  cen 
tre  of  a  sparkling  semicircle  of  attendants  ;  and  she 
herself  blazed  forth  in  the  full  majesty  of  a  queen. 
Either  by  chance  or  design,  the  dress  she  wore  was 
similar  to  that  in  which  he  first  saw  her  arrayed  for 
some  public  occasion.  Rich  folds  of  drapery  fell  round 
her  statue-like  form  with  classic  grace  ;  its  glossy, 
silken  texture  was  wrought  with  flowers  of  gold  ; 
her  girdle  was  composed  of  jewels  ;  the  crown,  which 
rested  lightly  on  her  high  forehead,  glittered  with 
diamonds  and  rubies  ;  and  her  hands,  folded  on  her 
breast,  held  a  small,  but  exquisitely  wrought  cruci 
fix,  worthy  'the  approaching  days  of  Cellini.  The 
lofty  beauty  of  her  countenance  was  almost  unearth 
ly  ;  excitement  glowed  in  her  cheeks,  and  flushed 
from  her  sunken,  but  expressive  eyes ;  and  she  looked 
all  that  she  had  been  in  the  glory  of  her  earlier  days, 
when  the  gaze  of  a  Petrarch  delighted  to  dwell  on 
one  who  realized  a  poet's  dream  of  female  loveliness, 
and  the  laughter-loving  Boccaccio  learned  to  rever 
ence  virtue  in  a  form  so  fascinating.  Years  rolled 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  263 

back ;  —  the  day,  the  hour,  when  that  same  re 
splendent  form  first  stood  before  him,  rose  on  the 
memory  of  Durazzo  ;  and  though  the  rosy  lips  of 
the  apparition  no  longer  wore  the  sweet,  maternal 
smile,  which  then  dispelled  his  boyish  timidity,  but 
greeted  him  with  a  cold,  yet  placid  gravity,  the  pres 
ent  moment  vanished  completely  in  the  gush  of  fond 
recollections.  He  stood  thunderstruck  an  instant, 
and  then,  as  he  rushed  forward  and  threw  himself  at 
the  queen's  feet,  the  tender  appellation  of  other  days, 
"  My  mother  !  my  mother  !  "  burst  from  his  uncon 
scious  lips.  The  witnesses  of  a  scene  so  unexpected 
remained  hushed  as  death  ;  the  monk  bit  his  nether 
lip,  and  with  a  countenance  lurid  with  wrath  turned 
away  ;  the  queen  herself  forgot  her  august  compos 
ure,  and  as  her  lip  trembled  with  a  momentary  emo 
tion,  she  almost  laid  her  hand  kindly  on  the  bent 
head  of  the  prince  ;  but  suddenly  recollecting  her 
self,  she  drew  back  proudly.  "  I  have  wished  to  see 
you,  Charles  of  Durazzo,"  she  said,  "  but  not  thus. 
Rise,  —  for  that  posture  little  becomes  the  terms  on 
which  we  meet." 

Charles  stood  up,  his  cheeks  burning  with  shame, 
and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground ;  and  with  the  same 
calm,  sweet  tone  the  queen  proceeded.  "  You  are 
my  master,  —  by  strength  of  arms  you  are  so  ;  but 
the  crown  of  my  ancestors  is  on  my  brows,  and 
never,  while  I  breathe,  will  I  voluntarily  place  it  on 
the  head  of — a  usurper.  He  that  wears  it  shall 
be  worthy  of  it.  This  it  was  my  pleasure  that  you 
should  hear  from  my  own  lips." 


264  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

The  undaunted  spirit  of  this  declaration  roused 
the  pride  of  Charles  for  a  moment,  and  retreating  a 
few  steps,  he  looked  up  boldly,  but  again  cowered  as 
he  encountered  the  brilliant  eye  of  Joanna  fixed 
steadily  upon  him.  He  stammered  a  few  words, 
and  the  queen  bent  her  head  forward  to  listen  ;  but 
unable  to  express  himself  articulately,  he  looked 
towards  his  confessor.  The  monk  met  his  embar 
rassed  glance  with  a  contemptuous  smile,  and  the 
queen  resumed,  —  "I  ask  of  you  the  safety  of  my 
husband  and  my  garrison.  Priests,  women,  children, 
and  a  few  brave  men,  once  able  to  bear  the  weight 
of  armour  and  skilful  to  use  it,  have  clung  to  my 
fallen  fortunes  with  an  affection  and  fidelity  that 
have  touched  my  heart's  core.  I  would  not  be  un 
grateful,  —  however  I  may  be  sunken  in  the  world's 
eye  ;  but  a  deposed  queen  has  little  grace  to  grant. 
I  can  plead  for  their  lives  and  property  with  their 
conqueror  and  mine,  —  it  is  all  I  can  do  ;  and  for 
that  purpose  I  use  the  few  brief  moments  of  our 
interview.  Is  my  petition  granted  ?  " 

"  It  is,"  said  Durazzo  ;  "  all,  every  thing  you  can 
ask.  Try  me  farther.  Demand  any  thing  that  I  can 
perform,  and  prove  whether  I  am  as  heartless  and 
ungrateful  as  you  deem  me." 

"  Nay,  I  have  but  one  favor  more  to  ask ;  — 
an  honorable  prison,  —  a  convent  rather  than  a  dun 
geon." 

"  Mother  in  heaven  !  "  cried  the  prince  ;  '•'  a  pris 
on  !  Think  you  I  am  a  brute,  a  monster  ?  I  would 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  265 

smite  the  head  from  the  shoulders  of  him  who  should 
speak  of  a  prison  for  the  person  of  my  adored  bene 
factress  !  Never,  so  help  me  Heaven  !  shall  wrong 
or  outrage  approach  you,  while  the  son  of  your 
adoption  wields  a  sword  or  draws  the  breath  of  life  ! 
No,  most  august  Joanna.  By  divine  injunction  I  re 
ceive  the  crown,  which  must  pass  from  the  house  of 
Anjou  ;  by  the  will  of  him  who  bears  the  keys  of 
Heaven,  and  through  whose  mouth  God  himself 
speaks  his  sovereign  pleasure  to  earthly  princes,  I 
claim  the  throne  which  you  must  vacate  ;  but  nev 
er,  never,  shall  I  forget  the  filial  love  of  my  boy 
hood  ;  never  shall  I  inflict  one  unnecessary  pang  upon 
the  heart  that  opened  to  me  in  my  desolation.  You 
shall  dwell  with  me  in  the  castle,  whose  founda 
tions  were  laid  deep  in  the  sea-shore  by  your  warlike 
progenitor,  and  steadfast  as  those  foundations  you 
shall  find  the  faith  of  Durazzo  !  Trust  me,  dearest 
mother  ;  —  give  me  back  your  love,  your  confidence. 
Abide  with  me  with  all  the  wonted  splendors  of  your 
rank  about  you  ;  cheer  me  in  my  troubles  ;  aid  me 
with  your  counsels  ;  and  though  I  may  riot  bow  the 
knee  of  a  subject,  I  will  pay  the  fondest  homage  of 
a  son  at  your  feet." 

As  the  prince  spoke,  he  again  sunk  on  one  knee, 
and  attempted  to  raise  the  golden  hem  of  her  gar 
ment  to  his  lips  ;  but  the  queen  withdrew  it  with 
dignity  ;  and,  as  a  slight  expression  of  scorn  passed 
over  her  face,  she  replied,  —  "  This  hour  unfolds 
how  little  you 'know  me,  Durazzo  ;  how  ill  you  can 

83 


266  JOANNA    OF  NAPLES. 

understand  the  true  spirit  of  a  born  sovereign.  I  will 
not  wrong  you  ;  I  think  not  that  you  speak  to  mock 
and  insult  me,  though  a  proposal  so  degrading  quick 
ens  this  pulse  with  an  indignation  you  have  not  the 
soul  to  comprehend.  You  are  bound  by  the  laws  of 
chivalry  to  respect  me  as  a  woman,  and  an  oppressed 
one ;  and  I  do  not  hold  you  such  a  recreant,  that  you 
wilfully  pour  contumely  on  your  prisoner.  But  I  tell 
you,  Charles  of  Durazzo,  I  will  not  look  tamely  on 
your  usurpation.  I  will  not  walk  about  these  halls 
like  the  eagle  whose  wings  are  clipped.  I  will  be 
caged,  or  I  will  soar  !  Till  my  subjects  forsake  me 
to  the  last  man,  I  will  not  forsake  them,  nor  acqui 
esce  in  a  mean  compact,  which  transfers  them  to  an 
unprincipled  ruler."  Charles  started  up,  but  the 
queen  went  on.  "  I  know  you,  prince  of  Durazzo,  — 
I  know  you  now.  Physical  courage  you  have, — 
fearless  and  brave  as  a  lion  in  the  face  of  danger  ; 
but  moral  courage,  the  noblest  gift  of  your  race,  you 
have  not.  You  have  some  vague,  unsettled  senti 
ments  of  honor  ;  but  fixed  principles  you  have  not ; 
and  he  who  is  the  slave  of  blind  impulse  cannot 
rule  a  kingdom  rightly." 

"  Urban  thinks  not  so,"  said  Durazzo  ;  "  he  reads 
me  better  than  she  who  trained  me  at  her  knee." 

"  Rememberest  thou  those  days,  Charles  ?  "  asked 
the  queen,  in  a  voice  so  soft  and  tremulous,  and  with 
a  tone  so  melancholy,  that  the  eyes  of  all  present 
filled  with  tears.  The  prince  shook  •  his  heart 
swelled,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  he  repressed  the 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  267 

impulse  to  burst  forth  once  more  into  protestations 
of  affection  ;  but  a  sudden  movement  of  the  monk, 
who  seemed  about  to  interfere  in  the  colloquy, 
checked  him.  "  If  the  Head  of  the  Church,"  he 

began-,  "  if  Urban  himself " 

"  Name  him  not,"  interrupted  Joanna  ;  "  he,  too, 
is  a  usurper,  and,  himself  bom  a  subject  of  Naples, 
he  may  well  preach  treason.  You  well  know,  Du- 
razzo,  that  I  cleave  to  the  cause  of  Clement,  and 
look  upon  the  Archbishop  of  Bari  as  one  who  has 
grasped  the  keys  of  St.  Peter  with  a  sacrilegious 
hand,  and  has  made  intrigue  and  sedition  his  step 
ping-stones  to  power  which  he  abuses.  You  know 
that  I  gave  shelter  to  the  cardinals  who  fled  from 
his  tortures  ;  that  when  the  tiara  was  brought  se 
cretly  to  Fondi,  I  sent  my  ambassadors  to  witness 
the  coronation  of  Robert  of  Savoy,  to  whom  I  bow 
as  Clement  the  Seventh,  the  only  lawful  Father  of 
the  Church  ;  and  that  I  have  thereby  drawn  on  my 
head  a  fierce  and  unrelenting  persecution.  Urban, 
Charles,  is  my  deadly  enemy,  —  the  enemy  of  my 
prosperity,  my  peace,  my  life,  and  my  reputation. 
If  my  name  goes  down  to  posterity  blackened  with 
calumnies  that  make  me  shudder  as  I  think  of  them, 
it  is  his  hand  that  has  given  the  mortal  stab  to  my 
fame,  —  his  influence  that  will  live  along  the  page  of 
history,  blighting  the  character  of  an  injured  and  in 
nocent  woman,  long  after  her  bones  have  crumbled 
to  dust.  O  Charles  !  that  you  should  become  the 
puppet  of  him  who  would  crush  me  into  the  earth,  — 


268  JOANNA  OF  NAPLES. 

who  would  drive  me  from  the  memory  of  the  good, 
and  shut  out  my  soul  from  heaven,  were  that  his 
prerogative  !  —  that  you,  whom  I  once  loved  so  ten 
derly,  should  become  a  thing  I  cannot  respect,  —  a 
gilded  toy-king  I  must  despise  !  " 

A  hectic  spot  was  now  on  the  cheek  of  Durazzo ; 
when  Luca  di  Battista  burst  suddenly  into  the  apart 
ment,  exclaiming,  —  "  The  laggard,  craven  slaves  ! 
I  would  a  whirlwind  met  them  now  !  Look  there, 
my  queen  !  "  And  as  he  spoke,  the  impetuous  Baron 
threw  back  the  lattice  from  a  window  near  Joanna, 
which  commanded  a  view  of  the  bay.  The  whole 
lovely  scene  was  bathed  in  the  richest  crimson  glow 
of  sunset ;  but  the  eye  of  the  queen  marked  little  of 
its  beauty,  for,  full  in  view,  ten  French  galleys  came 
on,  just  rounding  the  promontory  of  Posilipo,  and 
ploughing  the  golden  waves,  as  they  beat  up  bravely 
against  the  land-breeze,  that  almost  baffled  their 
progress.  The  queen  stood  dumb,  gazing  as  if  hewil- 
dered,  and  almost  fancying  it  some  optical  illusion, 
conjured  up  by  the  sunbeams  and  evening  vapors  ; 
then,  sadly  exclaiming,  "  Too  late  !  too  late !  "  she 
clasped  her  hands  before  her  eyes  to  shut  out  a  spec 
tacle  so  glorious  in  itself,  so  cruel  under  existing  cir 
cumstances,  and  sunk  into  a  seat. 

After  some  little  conference  with  his  officers  and 
with  Father  Matteo,  Charles  respectfully  approached 
the  queen,  whose  spirits  and  fortitude  seemed  for  a 
time  to  have  given  way.  "  I  relieve  you  from  my 
presence  for  to-day,"  said  he,  "  but  to-morrow,  when 


JOANNA    OF   NAPLES.  269 

* 

refreshed  by  sleep,  you  will  perhaps  admit  me  to  a 
conference  that  may  terminate  more  satisfactorily." 

"  I  know  not  that,"  replied  Joanna,  somewhat  im 
patiently  ;  "  but  I  would  pray  you  one  thing  with 
all  earnestness.  Let  not  these  tardy  Frenchmen  be 
harmed  ;  let  them  go  back  in  safety  from  their  fruit 
less  errand  ;  and  let  me  have  one  interview  with 
them,  that  I. may  thank  them  for  the  good  they  pur 
posed." 

"  It  shall  be  so,"  replied  Durazzo  ;  "  they  shall  be 
treated  as  my  own  guests  ;  and  to-morrow,  if  such 
be  your  pleasure,  they  shall  be  ushered  into  your 
presence." 

"  I  would  fain  see  them,"  replied  the  queen  ;  "  my 
destiny  is  sealed  ;  and  after  to-morrow  I  would  quit 
the  Castell  Nuovo." 

The  prince  and  his  attendants  left  the  apartment  ; 
and  Joanna,  worn  out  with  fatigue  and  excitement, 
retired  to  solitude  and  tears. 


CHAPTER    X. 

IT  was  with  unavailing  consternation  and  regret, 
that  the  deputies  from  Provence  learned  whose  was 
the  banner  floating  so  proudly  on  the  tower  San  Mar- 
tino  ;  and  that,  had  they  reached  the  Bay  of  Naples 
but  a  few  hours  sooner,  its  unfortunate  queen  might 


270  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

* 

have  been  saved  from  a  captivity  as  hopeless  as  un 
just.  Mournfully  they  entered  her  presence  on  the 
day  after  their  arrival ;  but  they  were  not  permitted 
a  private  interview.  Charles  himself  had  gone  to  the 
Castello  dell'  Uovo,  on  the  west  side  of  the  city,  un 
der  whose  wave-encircled  walls  the  French  fleet  was 
moored.  He  had  proposed  to  strengthen  its  fortifica 
tions,  and,  at  the  instigation  of  his  confessor,  had 
chosen  this  day  to  inspect  it ;  but  several  of  his  offi 
cers  attended  the  foreigners  in  their  conference  with 
the  queen,  and  Father  Matteo  mingled  unbidden 
with  the  train.  It  was  his  policy  to  keep  the  prince 
from  all  direct  intercourse  with  a  woman  whose  high 
spirit  might  soon  be  broken,  and  whose  tender  ap 
peals  to  the  better  nature  of  Charles  would  then,  he 
well  knew,  be  irresistible  ;  and  he  resolved,  if  possi 
ble,  to  be  the  medium  of  communication  between 
them.  He  feared,  indeed,  that  a  single  night's  re 
flection  on  the  actual  position  of  her  affairs  might 
have  humbled  her  into  concessions  which  would  sat 
isfy  the  ambition  of  the  prince  ;  but  the  first  glance 
at  her  regal  brow,  as  he  followed  the  French  into  her 
audience -chamber,  satisfied  him  that  he  need  dread 
no  humility  on  her  part,  which  would  be  dangerous 
to  his  schemes  of  vengeance.  The  treasures  which 
she  and  her  principal  nobility  had  borne  with  them 
into  the  castle  were  still  employed  to  support  the 
splendor  she  deemed  becoming  her  rank  ;  for  in  that 
age,  the  genius  of  invention,  newly  awakened  from v 
a  sleep  of  centuries,  toiled  diligently  in  the  service 


JOANNA    OF   NAPLES.  271 

of  luxury.  The  costly  attire  of  the  cardinals,  who 
thronged  around  the  wealthy  Clement  at  the  court  of 
Avignon,  would  have  purchased  whole  cities  in  the 
days  of  the  ancient  republics,  though  the  anathemas 
of  the  Church  of  Rome  were  thundered  against  the 
vanities,  not  only  of  crowned  heads  and  nobility, 
but  of  churchmen  themselves.  Joanna,  a  female, 
scarce  emerging  from  childhood  when  she  mounted 

£j        *— ' 

the  throne,  had  caught  the  spirit  of  the  age.  Her 
reign  was  the  era  of  many  inventions  ;  one  of  her 
own  subjects  had  bestowed  the  compass  on  the  ad 
venturous  mariner  ;  and  the  delicious  climate  of  Na 
ples,  the  attractions  of  its  sovereign,  and  her  liberal 
ity  towards  all  worthy  objects,  drawing  many  distin 
guished  foreigners  to  her  court,  it  had  been  her  de 
light  to  welcome  them  with  a  magnificence  suited  to 
her  resources. 

She  now  sat  on  a  chair  of  state,  raised  three  steps 
above  the  floor  ;  a  canopy  of  cloth  of  silver  above 
her,  and  a  blue  velvet  carpet,  flowered  with  silver, 
covering  the  steps  at  her  feet.  Her  own  dress  was 
simple,  but  costly,  the  single  band  of  gold  which 
confined  her  veil  being  enriched  with  the  most  pre 
cious  gems,  a  cross  of  large  rubies  resting  on  her 
swan-like  neck,  and  her  black  velvet  robe  delicately 
embroidered  round  the  hem  with  vine-leaves  and 
bunches  of  grapes  in  pearls.  She  was  no  longer 
flushed  with  feverish  excitement,  nor  unnaturally 
pale  ;  her  eye  had  regained  the  calm,  thoughtful 
expression  it  had  worn  for  years,  and  no  one  who 


272  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

looked  at  her  would  have  believed  her  a  queen  but 
yesterday  deposed.  Her  reception  of  the  French 
noblemen,  as  they  were  severally  introduced  to  her, 
was  full  of  her  accustomed  sweetness  and  majesty  ; 
and  one  or  two  of  them  she  recognized  at  once. 
"  Noble  Baron  of  Rocroi !  "  said  she,  "it  is  many, 
many  years  since  we  parted  at  Nice ;  we  may  almost 
count  them  by  tens  ;  yet  it  were  not  well  to  dwell 
on  the  events  through  which  they  have  whirled  us. 
It  seems  a  dark,  misty  chaos,  as  I  look  back  ;  but  I 
joy  to  see  your  soldier-like  frame  unbent  by  time." 

"  These  locks  were  hardly  touched  with  silver, 
when  your  Majesty  left  your  faithful  subjects  in 
Provence,"  said  the  old  warrior,  as  he  knelt  to  kiss 
her  extended  hand. 

"  No,"  replied  Joanna  ;  "  but  white  as  they  now 
are,  and  worn  upon  the  temples  by  the  helmet,  you 
see  I  cannot  forget  the  hawk  eye  of  Rocroi.  And 
this  youth,  —  his  face  is  familiar,  yet  he  could  not 
have  seen  the  light  when  we  broke  up  our  court  to 
traverse  the  seas." 

"  It  is  the  young  De  Lisle,"  replied  the  Baron  de 
Rocroi,  "  who  prayed  earnestly  to  come  on  this  ex 
pedition,  that  he  might  behold  her  of  whom  he  has 
dreamed  from  his  cradle." 

"  De  Lisle  !  "  repeated  the  queen  sadly ;  "  I  loved 
your  mother,  young  man  ;  the  beavftiful  Countess  de 
Lisle  was  the  pride  and  ornament  of  my  French 
court.  In  her  bridal  days  we  walked  together  amid 
the  shades  of  Vaucluse  ;  and  her  tears  fell  fast  when 


JOANNA    OF   NAPLES.  273 

we  parted.  It  is  her  clear,  olive  complexion,  and  her 
animated  smile,  that  you  inherit.  Did  she  beqneathe 
to  you,  also,  her  reverence  for  her  sovereign,  her 
sympathy  for  the  oppressed  ?  " 

"  She  did,  indeed,"  exclaimed  the  youth  eagerly, 
half  drawing  his  sword  from  the  scabbard  ;  "  and  I 
have  thought  nineteen  summers  too  many  over  my 
head,  before  I  brought  my  maiden  blade  into  your 
Majesty's  service." 

"  One  day  too  many  has  indeed  passed,"  said  the 
queen,  with  a  melancholy  smile  ;  "  and  now,  my 
good  and  brave  friends,  —  trusty,  I  doubt  not,  though 
dilatory,  —  how  chanced  this  fatal  delay  ?  What  ad 
verse  wind  swept  the  Mediterranean,  when  the  fate 
of  Joanna  hung  on  your  speed  ?  " 

The  Frenchmen  looked  downwards  in  silence  ; 
and  it  was  some  moments  before  the  venerable  Ro- 
croi  replied  to  her  inquiry.  "  It  is  true  that  we  were 
for  many  days  wind-bound  in  the  port  of  Marseilles ; 
but,  gracious  queen,  your  cry  for  help  came  across 
the  waters  just  when  the  death  of  the  monarch  had 
thrown  the  whole  kingdom  of  France  into  confusion, 
and  Louis  of  Anjou  was  straining  every  nerve  to 
raise  troops  in  his  own  defence.  His  regency  was 
over,  but  tumult  and  bloodshed  were  about  him,  and, 
distracted  by  innumerable  perplexities,  he  could  not 
take  measures  in  your  behalf  so  promptly  as  his  heart 
would  have  dictated." 

The  queen  listened  with  attention  to  the  defence 
of  the  worthy  Baron,  but  paused  before  she  an- 


274  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

swered.  A  slight  expression  of  doubt  passed  over 
her  face,  and  leaning  on  the  arm  of  her  chair,  she 
covered  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  as  if  willing  to  re 
flect  on  what  she  had  heard.  "  Good  Baron  of  Ro- 
croi,"  said  she  at  length,  "  you  were  wont  to  be 
highly  esteemed  as  a  man  of  no  less  sagacity  and  in 
tegrity  than  prowess ;  and  such  I  do  hold  you.  Tell 
me,  then,  are  these  the  unvarnished  facts  ?  Is  Louis 
of  Anjou  true  in  his  heart,  and  worthy  of  my  con 
fidence  ?  " 

"  He  is  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  knight  with  energy. 
"  I  believe  him  a  most  honorable  and  high-minded 
prince  ;  and  that  the  evil  star  of  Q,ueen  Joanna,  which 
bade  her  summon  his  aid  at  the  very  conjuncture 
when  he  could  not  grant  it,  ruled  him  in  this  matter. 
Never,  never,  will  he  wrong  or  deceive  you,  most 
august  queen  ;  and  I  verily  believe  he  will  be  smit 
ten  with  the  sorest  anguish,  when  he  learns  how  ill 
our  errand  hath  sped.  Men  dreamed  not  that  your 
danger  was  so  imminent." 

"  I  thank  you  for  this  assurance,  worthy  De  Ro- 
croi,"  replied  the  queen,  with  her  former  unclouded 
aspect  ;  "  I  trust  you;  but  who,  —  who  can  wonder, 
that  a  nature,  once  too  confiding,  hath  long  since  be 
come  prone  to  distrust  ?  Who  can  blame  me,  when 

so  lately  forced  to  rend  an  idol  from  my  heart " 

She  paused  to  recover  herself,  but  it  was  only  for  an 
instant.  "  Now,  most  noble  barons  of  Provence,  I 
see  around  you  men  whose  swords  and  hearts  are 
pledged  to  the  cause  of  Durazzo  ;  I  see  Italians  by 


JOANNA   OF  NAPLES.  275 

your  side,  who  will  listen  to  my  words  in  the  spirit 
of  jealousy  and  hatred  ;  yet  in  their  presence  will  I 
speak  boldly.  You  well  know,  that  at  the  tender 
age  of  fifteen  I  came  to  the  crown.  What  perils, 
what  difficulties,  what  temptations,  then  surrounded 
me,  no  mortal  man  can  know.  It  was  not  a  day  of 
vainglorious  exultation  ;  the  tears'  of  my  regret  fell 
on  the  grave  of  my  venerable  grandsire,  and  I  trem 
bled  as  I  looked  on  the  wild  breakers  amid  which 
he  had  left  me,  though  I  knew  not  half  their  hidden 
dangers.  My  sex,  my  age,  my  rank, — those  charms 
of  which  courtiers  told  me,  now  rapidly  waning,  — 
each  and  all  brought  their  own  trials.  Yet  men  had 
no  mercy  on  my  youth  and  inexperience  ;  they  for 
gave  not  my  errors  ;  they  forgot  not  my  infirmities  ; 
they  exaggerated  my  indiscretions.  I  had  deadly 
foes  and  false  friends,  and  my  life  has  been  a  succes 
sion  of  calamities  ;  my  reign  filled  with  hurricanes, 
both  political  and  domestic,  and  slander  has  ever 
been  busy  with  that  which  is  dearer  than  life  to  the 
virtuous,  —  my  good  fame.  Yet,  noble  barons,  as 
truly  as  I  now  stand  before  you,  a  living,  breathing, 
hapless  woman,  so  truly  does  my  conscience  acquit 
me  of  aught  that  approaches  crime  ;  so  truly  have  I 
striven  to  serve  God  and  my  fellow-creatures,  in  all 
innocence  and  uprightness.  The  enemies  of  my 
youth  are  in  their  graves  ;  the  sorrows  of  my  earlier 
years  have  receded  into  the  gloomy  past ;  but  where 
do  I  now  stand  ?  Let  me  declare  to  you,  in  the 
presence  of  yonder  lowering  Dominican,  that  I  know 


276  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

myself  to  be  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice,  and  I  know 
whose  fierce  hostility  hath  driven  me  to  it.  I  refused 
to  acknowledge  the  unjust  election  of  the  Archbish 
op  of  Barij  —  a  bad  man  and  a  cruel  one  j  *  and  he 
hath  denounced  me,  excommunicated  me,  tampered 
with  the  fidelity  of  my  subjects,  stolen  from  me  the 
affections  of  the  son  I  adopted,  poisoned  the  sweet 
cup  of  domestic  happiness,  threatened  me  with  ruin, 
and  I  am  in  his  power.  Think  not  that  I  speak 
boldly  because  unconscious  of  my  danger.  I  behold 
with  an  undaunted  eye  the  melancholy  vista  opening 
before  me,  —  dethronement,  imprisonment,  a  bro 
ken  heart,  a  premature  grave,  and  a  blasted  mem 
ory.  He  who  can  rend  Christendom  with  a  fatal 
schism,  make  the  Church  a  double-headed  monster 
that  distracts  the  consciences  of  the  pious,  forget, 
in  his  selfish  ambition  and  unhallowed  strife,  that 
the  voice  of  the  heretic,  Wickliffe,  cries  scorn  even 
from  the  shores  of  his  own  friendly  England,  —  he, 
I  say,  will  not  hesitate  to  wreak  his  malice  to  the 
uttermost  on  a  helpless  female.  Yet,  knowing  all 
these  things,  I  do  hereby  protest,  that  no  creature  of 

*  "  Alle  sciagure  da  cui  giaceva  oppressa  1'  Italia,  un'  altra  assai 
piil  grave  se  ne  aggiunse  nel  funestissimo  scisma,  che  per  tanti  anni 
divise  e  desolo  miseramente  la  chiesa.  Morto  1'  an.  1378  il  pontef. 
Gregorio  XI.,  che  avea  ricondotta  a  Roma  la  sede  apostolica,  ed  eletto 
a  succedergli,  non  senza  qualche  tumulto,  Bartolomeo  Prignani,  Arci- 
vescovo  di  Bari,  che  prese  il  nome  di  Urbano  VI.,  questi,  colla  ecces- 
siva  sua  severita,  fece  ben  presto  pentire  piti  cardinali,  e  i  Francesi  t 
singolarmente,  della  elezione  che  aveano  fatta."  —  TIRABOSCHI,  Tomo 
V.,  p.  14. 


JOANNA    OF   NAPLES.  277 

his  shall  ever  mount  the  throne  of  Naples  while  I 
have  breath  wherewith  to  oppose  it,  nor  while  the 
solemn  voice  of  the  dead  can  forbid  it.  I  do  hereby 
revoke  the  declaration  I  once  made  in  favor  of  Charles 
of  Durazzo,  my  adopted  son  and  intended  heir,  de 
claring  that  his  base  subserviency  to  the  designs  of 
Rome,  his  impatient  ambition  and  black  ingratitude, 
have  forfeited  my  confidence  and  my  affection.  And 
I  do  hereby  transfer  all  my  dominions  in  France  and 
Italy,  after  my  decease,  to  Louis  of  Anjou,  late  Re 
gent  of  France,  declaring  him  my  sole  lawful  heir, 
and  conjuring  him  to  assert  and  make  good  his  claim 
to  rule  my  beloved  people.  As  a  pledge  and  memo 
rial  of  my  sincerity,  worthy  Baron  de  Rocroi,  I  call 
all  present  to  witness  that  I  deliver  into  your  hands 
this  document,  —  the  last  will  and  testament  of  Jo 
anna  of  Naples  ;  wherein  the  intentions  I  have  so 
distinctly  expressed  are  fulfilled.  And  now,  kind 
and  true  friends,  I  would  bid  God  speed  you  back  to 
dear,  happy  Provence.  Begone,  while  the  sea  is 
calm,  and  before  the  hand  of  the  spoiler  is  out 
stretched  ;  for  the  purposes  of  unjust  men  are  more 
unsteady  than  the  winds  or  waves.  As  for  the  dis 
inherited  Charles,  I  loved  him  like  a  true  woman, 
faithfully,  trustingly,  to  the  last.  I  could  not,  would 
not,  believe  him  false  till  his  own  hand  rent  the  band 
age  from  my  eyes  ;  and  even  now  I  hate  him  not. 
I  pity  him,  my  friends,  I  pity  him  ;  for  with  agony 
of  soul  will  he  yet  atone  for  the  undeserved  suffer 
ing  with  which  he  has  wrung  this  heart.  Yet,  — 

24 


278  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

mark  me,  —  if  ever  you  are  told  hereafter  that  I 
have  admitted  his  unjust  claims,  believe  it  not ;  even 
if  they  place  before  you  an  act  signed  by  my  hand, 
regard  it  as  false,  or  extorted  from  me  by  fraud  or 
violence  ;  —  believe  it  not ;  —  believe  not  your  own. 
eyes  ;  —  believe  nothing  but  these  tears  which  I  shed 
before  you,  and  avenge  them  !  " 

The  queen  descended  two  steps,  and  delivered  the 
roll  of  parchment  into  the  hands  of  the  Baron  de 
Rocroi,  who  received  it  on  his  knee.  He  then  rose, 
drew  his  sword,  the  other  noblemen  followed  the  ex 
ample,  and  their  manly  voices  rang  through  the  hall, 
as  they  solemnly  renewed  their  oaths  of  allegiance  to 
their  persecuted  sovereign.  This  ceremony  over,  he 
approached  to  take  a  sad,  respectful  leave  of  Joanna, 
and  kiss  her  unsceptred  hand.  She  bade  them  a 
kind  farewell,  and  as  they  passed  silently,  one  by 
one,  from  her  presence,  the  tones  of  that  most  touch 
ing  voice  yet  ringing  in  their  ears,  unwonted  tears 
rolled  down  their  cheeks. 

From  the  moment  that  the  Baron  de  Rocroi  had 
ascertained  the  state  of  affairs  in  Naples,  he  had  re 
solved  not  to  linger  a  day  near  its  treacherous  shores. 
The  crews  of  his  fleet  had  been  permitted  to  land 
only  to  take  in  a  supply  of  fresh  water,  at  which  em 
ployment  they  had  toiled  through  the  night  and  cool 
morning,  and  he  had  promptly  demanded  a  safe-con 
duct  from  Charles,  which  that  prince  had  as  readily 
granted,  under  the  influence  of  his  recent  interview 
with  Joanna.  From  her  presence,  therefore,  the 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  279 

French  chiefs  returned  to  their  ships,  and  prepared 
to  sail  as  soon  as  the  afternoon  vento  di  terra  should 
fill  their  canvas. 

In  the  mean  time,  Father  Matteo,  with  equal  de 
spatch,  had  gone  in  pursuit  of  Durazzo,  burning  to 
communicate  the  intelligence  of  the  queen's  pro 
ceedings,  and  to  seize  the  moment  for  striking  an 
important  blow.  Before  he  reached  the  Castello  dell' 
Uovo,  however,  Charles  had  left  it.  Restless  and 
unhappy,  the  victor  of  yesterday  had  wandered  from 
place  to  place ;  and  as  he  galloped  with  a  small  party 
of  attendants  to  various  parts  of  the  city,  under  dif 
ferent  pretexts,  the  perturbation  of  his  mind  was  visi 
ble  in  his  absent  air  and  troubled  countenance.  It 
was  not  till  the  afternoon  that  the  monk  overtook 
him,  just  as  he  had  returned  to  the  Castello  dell' 
Uovo,  and  stood  on  its  battlements,  watching  the 
French  galleys  as  they  went  down  the  harbour  with 
a  prosperous  breeze,  filling  every  inch  of  their  white 
sails. 

"  There  they  go  !  "  said  Durazzo,  with  a  forced 
smile  ;  "  the  officious  intruders  are  glad  to  make  us 
but  a  twenty-four  hours'  visit,  and  back  they  speed 
to  gay  France.  If  our  last  tidings  be  true,  Anjou 
will  find  work  enough  for  their  ready  blades  on  his 
own  soil,  without  sending  them  to  bluster  in  a  wom 
an's  cause.  I  would  he  had  despatched  a  few  old 
minstrels  and  troubadours,  to  cheer  us  in  these  anx 
ious  days  ;  we  would  have  shown  them  some  royal 
courtesy." 


280  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

"You  have  shown  yon  knaves  more  courtesy  than, 
beseems  your  interests,  my  son,"  said  the  monk,  bit 
terly  ;  "  but  their  safe-conduct  would  have  availed 
them  little,  could  I  have  traced  you  some  hours  soon 
er  ;  it  is  too  late  now.  You  have  sown  the  seeds  of 
your  own  torment." 

"  What  mean  you  ?  "  exclaimed  the  prince. 

"  I  mean,  that  the  mischievous  and  malignant 
woman  whom  you  handle  so  gently  has  prepared  strife 
for  your  companion  these  many  years  !  Yonder  fleet 
galleys  carry  with  them  that  which  shall  bring  upon 
you  fresh  enemies,  increasing  difficulties,  and  unceas 
ing  warfare  !  Know  you  not,  —  can  you  not  guess, 
what  precious  document  they  transport  to  the  hands 
of  Anjou  ?  " 

Charles's  countenance  fell,  but  he  stood  mute. 

"  I  tell  you,"  continued  the  monk,  "  the  last  sol 
emn  will  of  Joanna  is  in  that  bark,  which  leads  the 
van  so  proudly.  It  makes  Louis  of  Anjou  her  heir, 
and  consequently  bequeathes  to  you  a  goodly  inher 
itance  of  strife  and  bloodshed.  Inch  by  inch  will 
you  be  forced  to  contend  for  these  fair  possessions, 
with  the  chance  that  at  last  the  hand  of  your  French 
competitor  may  rend  the  crown  from  your  brows, 
so  lately  placed  there  by  Urban  himself.  You  came 
from  Rome  a  newly  made  king  ;  you  may  be  driven 
back  to  it  a  hunted  fugitive.  These  are  the  loving 
acts  of  Joanna  towards  you  !  " 

"  Have  I  deserved  aught  better  at  her  hands  ?  " 
asked  Durazzo,  turning  deadly  pale.  "  And  yet,  — 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  281 

that  she  should  make  him  her  heir !     How  could  I 
anticipate  such  a  step  ?  " 

"  Back,  back  to  Venice  !  "  said  the  monk  ;  "  there 
you  were  a  man  and  a  warrior.  Your  friends  of 
Genoa  have  need  of  you  ;  for  men  say  that  an  aged 
magician  hath  brought  up  fire  from  hell  to  serve 
those  desperate  Venetians,  and  that  with  smoke  and 
red  flashes  he  rains  down  balls  of  iron  upon  the 
Genoese  fleet.*  Go  back  to  Venice,  my  son  ;  think 
no  more  of  fair  Naples  and  its  rich  sovereignty  ;  and 
as  you  pass  through  Rome,  stay  only  to  render  ac 
count  to  Urban  of  the  massy  church  plate  that  he 
melted  down,  to  hire  fresh  troops  against  this  dis 
obedient  woman.  Tell  him  you  are  no  match  for 
her  wiles  ;  that  you  have  not  the  spirit  to  curb  her  ; 
that  you  have  made  her  your  prisoner,  and  dare  not 
treat  her  as  such.  Tell  him  that  she  taunts  and  in 
sults  you  to  your  face,  and  speaks  of  you  with  con 
temptuous  pity  ;  yet  goes  free,  and,  with  mingled 
craft  and  haughtiness,  lays  her  machinations  for  your 

*  "We  may  say,  this  was  the  most  cruell  warre  that  vntill  that 
time  euer  was  seen  in  the  world  :  for,  therein  was  artillery  first  of  all 
vsed  by  the  Venecians ;  which  was  about  the  yeer  of  our  Lord  one 
thousand  three  hundred,  eighty  two,  or  a  little  while  after.  The  in- 
uention  of  this  pestilent  scourge  of  mankinde  was  attributed  to  the 
Germanes  :  some  say  that  a  Monk,  who  was  a  great  Philosopher, 
found  out  the  same  ;  not  to  that  purpose  to  haue  killed  and  slain  men 
therewith,  but  with  a  desire  to  haue  experimented  the  quality  and 
naturall  force  of  things.  Others  are  of  opinion,  that  it  was  one  Peter, 
a  great  Magician:  but  it  imported)  little  to  knowe  who  it  was;  for  be 
sides  the  ordinary  Historiographers  which  I  follow  in  this  place,  ther 
be  many  others  write  thereof." — GRYMESTONE'S  Imperiall  History. 
24* 


282  JOANNA    OF   NAPLES. 

future  ruin  unmolested.  O  blindness  and  infatua 
tion  most  inconceivable  !  Well  may  rumor  whisper 
that  she,  too,  deals  in  a  dark,  unhallowed  science, 
which  gives  her  more  than  human  power." 

"  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?  "  asked  the  per 
plexed  and  wavering  Charles. 

His  ghostly  father  gazed  steadfastly  on  his  counte 
nance,  so  full  of  woe  and  uncertainty,  and  then,  look 
ing  round  at  the  page  of  Charles  and  other  attend 
ants,  who  stood  almost  within  hearing,  he  sunk  his 
voice  to  a  stern  whisper,  and  said,  —  "  It  was  but 
yesterday  you  threatened  to  smite  the  head  from  the 
shoulders  of  him  who  should  speak  of  a  prison  for 
Joanna,  yet  I  dare  do  it." 

The  prince  started,  and,  striking  his  hand  against 
his  forehead,  turned  from  the  monk  abruptly,  and 
strode  away.  Father  Matteo  looked  after  him  ear 
nestly,  and  said  to  himself,  —  "Ay,  start  at  first !  then 
look  askance  at  the  matter  once  more,  —  ponder,  — 
become  familiar  with  its  aspect,  and  brood  over  it,  till 
reluctance  vanishes,  and  you  plunge  forward  with  a 
blindfold  desperation.  I  have  her  closely  immured  ; 
I  am  as  sure  of  it  as  if  I  looked  through  the  grated 
window  of  her  prison." 

Durazzo  left  the  battlements  instantly ;  but  it  was 
to  return  to  his  quarters  in  the  city,  where  he  shut 
himself  up  in  his  apartment  for  two  hours.  At  the 
expiration  of  that  time,  Father  Matteo  was  sum 
moned,  as  he  had  anticipated.  The  door  was  again 
closed,  and  their  fearful  conference  protracted  till  the 
purple  twilight  descended  over  land  and  sea. 


JOAXNA    OF   NAPLES.  283 


CHAPTER    XI. 

IN  the  mean  time  a  message  came  from  Joanna, 
requesting  permission  to  visit  her  wounded  husband. 
It  met  with  a  prompt  refusal.  Another  arrived,  de 
manding  an  interview  with  Durazzo  himself.  That, 
too,  was  refused.  It  was  her  heart's  desire  to  solicit 
the  return  of  her  beloved  niece,  that  she  might  have 
the  consolation  of  a  visit  from  her  in  some  neigh 
bouring  convent ;  but,  indignant  at  the  harsh  incivil 
ity  with  which  her  requests  were  met,  and  judging 
rightly  that  it  boded  ill,  she  forbore  to  molest  her 
conqueror  farther  that  night. 

As  the  evening  waned,  no  sleep  sat  heavy  on  her 
eyelids.  She  dismissed  her  weary  attendants,  and 
placed  herself  alone  at  a  window  of  her  chamber. 
The  air  was  peculiarly  still  and  sultry,  the  sky  hazy, 
and  the  stars  shone  with  a  dim,  reddish  lustre,  as  if 
looking  sadly  down  on  a  world  where  they  witnessed 
so  much  sin  and  suffering.  The  monotonous  sounds 
of  the  waves,  continually  washing  against  the  castle 
walls,  harmonized  with  the  dejected  state  of  the 
queen's  mind.  She  had  observed  that  her  own 
guard  had  been  withdrawn,  and  sentinels  substituted 
from  the  ranks  of  those  fierce,  hireling  mountaineers, 
by  whose  aid  Charles  had  spread  dismay  in  Naples. 
She  felt  herself  a  prisoner  ;  and,  leaning  out  from 
her  casement,  looked  wishfully  down  to  some  gar- 


284  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

dens  beyond  the  fortress,  whose  myrtle-groves  and 
pleasant  walks  reached  to  the  water's  edge.  There, 
indeed,  an  illumination,  like  the  work  of  fairies, 
caught  her  attention  for  a  few  moments,  as  those 
glittering  insects,  which  light  up  the  summer  even 
ings  of  Italy,  flitted  in  myriads  among  the  trees, 
emitting  and  concealing  their  silvery  light  with  the 
regularity  of  machinery.  The  laugh  of  the  thought 
less  Neapolitans,  who  strolled  in  search  of  coolness 
at  that  late  hour,  came  up  occasionally  to  her  ear ; 
and  she  smothered  a  sigh  as  she  thought,  —  "  Yes, 
there  is  brightness,  there  is  joy  yet  in  the  world, 
though  not  for  me.  Are  my  sorrows  so  selfish  that 
the  thought  cannot  soothe  their  anguish  ?  O,  no  ! 
Charles  !  Charles  !  the  parental  heart  mourning  over 
the  misconduct  of  the  being  it  condemns  and  loves 
at  once,  cannot  be  selfish  ;  and  mine  are  the  pangs 
of  a  disappointed  mother.  Little  dost  thou  dream 
of  them  ;  deep  and  secret  are  the  fountains  of  these 
gushing  tears.  My  people,  too  ;  beloved,  unhappy 
people  !  what  horrors  of  misrule  await  ye  !  The 
heartless  usurper  must  needs  be  a  tyrant ;  he  cannot, 
he  will  not,  study  your  welfare  as  I  have  done  ;  and 
the  wealth  that  should  be  the  handmaiden  of  re 
ligion,  charity,  and  the  people's  good,  will  be  wasted 
in  bloody,  ambitious  wars,  wherein  ye  have  no  con 
cern.  He  cannot  rejoice  in  the  quiet  arts  of  peace, 
with  a  guilty  conscience  for  ever  struggling  in  his 
bosom ;  and  unrighteous  contention  must  be  the 
element  in  which  such  troubled  spirits  move.  O 


JOANNA    OF   NAPLES.  285 

my  son,   my  unhappy  boy  !   my  wretched  people  ! 
my  forlorn  and  suffering  husband  !  " 

Forgetting  thus  the  gloom  of  her  own  personal 
situation  in  the  sad  prospects  of  those  she  loved,  Jo 
anna  yielded  in  the  solitude  of  night  to  that  sorrow 
which  before  the  face  of  man  she  would  have  mag 
nanimously  suppressed  ;  and  laying  down  her  head 
on  the  edge  of  the  window,  she  wept  freely.  She 
was  unconscious  how  the  hours  passed,  for  the  ab 
straction  of  utter  affliction  sometimes,  like  that  of 
happiness,  makes  us  forgetful  of  time.  It  was  long 
past  midnight,  however,  and  repose  at  last  seemed  to 
have  settled  upon  that  populous  and  most  restless 
city,  when  its  stillness  was  invaded  by  a  strange  and 
awful  sound.  The  queen  raised  her  head  suddenly 
and  listened.  It  was  a  low,  subterranean  rumbling, 
as  if  a  thousand  chariots  were  driven  through  vaults 
far  beneath  the  castle,  jarring  the  whole  massy  fab 
ric  ;  and  as  it  approached  from  the  west,  and  died 
solemnly  away,  her  heart  seemed  to  cease  beating. 
It  was  hushed  by  awe,  not  terror  ;  she  knew  the 
voice  of  the  earthquake,  which  had  spoken  forth  its 
deep  accents  not  unfrequently  during  her  reign,  but 
seldom  excited  alarm,  because  unattended  by  serious 
consequences.  It  had  only  reminded  the  thoughtful, 
that  though  they  dwelt  under  the  bluest  of  skies. 
amid  balmy  breezes,  with  a  soil  beneath  their  feet  so 
fertile  that  the  whole  country  was  a  garden,  yet  that 
that  soil  was  but  a  crust  over  a  vast  fiery  abyss  ;  a 
fact  to  which,  everywhere,  the  black  lavas  of  former 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 


calamity  bore  fearful  testimony,  and  the  craters  of 
extinct  volcanoes,  visible  at  so  many  distinct  local 
ities,  gave  also  their  witness.  The  shock  which  had 
roused  the  queen  was  not  a  severe  one,  and  amid  the 
innumerable  noises  of  busy  day  might  have  passed 
unnoticed  ;  but  as  she  rose,  she  involuntarily  looked 
towards  Vesuvius.  The  mountain  stood  calm,  silent, 
and  majestic  beneath  the  starlight  ;  the  long  sleep  of 
its  fires  was  not  yet  broken.  She  remembered  that, 
in  the  beginning  of  the  century,  the  volcano  in  the 
isle  of  Ischia  had  been  active  ;  and  though  its  lofty 
summit  was  hid  by  intervening  objects,  she  turned 
to  that  quarter,  half  expecting  to  see  the  heavens 
glowing  with  the  reflection  of  the  red  eruption  ;  but 
there,  too,  the  skies  shone  with  their  wonted  lights 
alone.  It  might  have  been  produced  by  the  distant 
operations  of  Stromboli,  which,  as  she  well  knew, 
had  been  in  a  state  of  activity  from  time  immemo 
rial.  But  the  current  of  the  queen's  sad  thoughts 
was  now  broken,  and  she  gave  herself  up  to  those 
reflections  on  the  omnipotence  of  the  Almighty, 
which,  to  intellects  of  a  high  order,  are  so  absorbing. 
Lost  in  sublime  reverie,  she  lingered  at  the  case 
ment  without  a  thought  of  retiring ;  when  another 
interruption  called  back  her  spirit  from  its  musings. 
The  red  light  of  a  torch  appeared  flaring  among  the 
trees,  in  one  of  the  neighbouring  gardens  already 
mentioned ;  and  presently  its  bearer,  evidently  a 
stripling  from  the  slightness  of  his  figure,  emerged 
from  the  shrubbery  which  fringed  the  turfy  margin 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  287 

of  the  shore,  and  wandered  along  as  if  searching  for 
something.  He  soon  reached  a  cypress,  whose  droop 
ing  branches  swept  the  water,  and,  loosing  a  small 
skiff  which  was  secured  to  its  trunk,  sprang  in,  pushed 
t)ff,  and  plunged  his  flambeau  into  the  sea.  Its  sud 
den  extinction  seemed  to  leave  a  total  darkness  be 
hind  ;  and  the  queen,  after  listening  some  time  in 
vain,  was  preparing  to  leave  the  window,  when  the 
dash  of  an  oar  caught  her  ear.  She  leaned  out  again, 
and  was  convinced  that  the  boatman  was  approach 
ing  under  the  castle  walls  with  great  caution  ;  and  in 
a  few  moments  more  he  shot  forth  from  their  shad 
ow,  apparently  satisfied  that  no  sentinels  were  sta 
tioned  along  the  water  side  of  the  fortress  ;  and  as 
the  small  bark  glided  silently  on  the  dark  waters  op 
posite  her  window,  she  perceived  that  he  stood  up 
and  made  signs  to  her.  Once  she  thought  he  raised 
his  arms  as  if  about  to  draw  a  bow ;  but  through  the 
shades  of  night  it  was  impossible  to  distinguish  his 
gestures  clearly.  Aware  that  she  herself  was  con 
spicuous  at  the  window  of  a  lighted  apartment,  she 
was  persuaded  that  the  stranger  must  probably  rec 
ognize  her  person,  and  propose  to  hold  conference 
with  her  ;  but  it  was  not  till  after  watching  some 
time  intently  that  she  perceived  he  was  making  signs 
for  her  to  withdraw.  She  did  so  ;  and  the  next  in 
stant  an  arrow  came  whizzing  past  her,  and,  penetrat 
ing  the  oaken  wainscoting  of  her  apartment  opposite 
the  casement,  remained  quivering  in  the  wood.  Star 
tled  and  amazed,  she  looked  out  again  ;  the  youth 


288  JOANNA    OF   NAPLES. 

and  his  boat  were  skimming  the  waves  swiftly,  and 
were  soon  lost  in  the  gloom  of  night,  once  more 
leaving  her  in  utter  perplexity.  On  approaching  the 
arrow,  she  found  a  slip  of  linen  paper  attached  to  it  ; 
arid  the  following  words  solved  the  mystery. 

"  Most  gracious  Queen,  — 

"  A  secret  and  deadly  foe  plots  your  destruction, 
and  rules  the  conscience  of  my  poor  master.  They 
have  held  a  conference  to-night.  I  know  its  result, 
and  have  striven  to  rescue  you.  I  have  even  bribed 
the  rude  Hungarian  captain  of  your  guard  ;  but  when 
I  came  to  claim  admission,  scarce  an  hour  since,  for 
the  purpose  of  withdrawing  you  secretly  to  a  place 
of  safety,  I  found  him  trembling  with  superstitious 
terrors.  The  earthquake  seemed  to  him  a  warning 
against  the  betrayal  of  his  trust,  and  I  was  forced  to 
retire  and  seek  some  method  to  warn  you  of  your 
danger.  They  will  come  to  you  with  propositions 
this  night ;  seem  to  yield,  noble  sovereign,  or  you 
will  be  hurried  beyond  the  reach  of  aid.  Gain  time ; 
and  by  to-morrow  night  abler  heads  may  plot,  and 
abler  hands  accomplish,  your  flight. 

"  GIOVANNI  DEL  MONTE." 

'•'  The  page  of  Charles !  "  exclaimed  Joanna  to  her 
self.  "  Strange,  strange  are  the  chances  of  this 
world !  The  evil  for  which  we  were  prepared  comes 
not,  but  sorrow  lights  upon  us  from  some  other  quar 
ter  ;  and  so,  too,  the  staff  we  lean  on  breaks,  and 


JOAXNA   OF   NAPLES.  289 

help  is  extended  by  a  stranger's  hand  !  Durazzo  is 
my  enemy,  and  takes  counsel  with  the  emissaries  of 
Urban  ;  this  unknown,  humble  boy  rises  up  to  com 
fort  and  protect  a  crowned  queen  !  Noble  youth, 
I  will  not  peril  thee.  Thou  shalt  not  entwine  the 
thread  of  thy  destiny  with  that  of  my  dark  and  tan 
gled  fate,  nor  mingle  in  schemes  that  might  bring 
thee  to  an  early  and  bloody  grave.  I  Avill  use  no  ar 
tifice  ;  I  will  ask  no  delay  ;  I  will  face  all  dangers 
bravely,  which  threaten  me  alone." 

So  saying,  the  high-minded  queen  tore  the  paper 
into  small  pieces,  and  cast  them  from  the  window. 
As  she  stood,  with  the  arrow  yet  in  her  hand,  uncer 
tain  how  to  dispose  of  it,  a  noise  within  the  castle 
broke  on  the  universal  stillness.  It  approached  ; 
doors  opened,  and  heavy  feet  came  trampling  on, 
along  the  marble  floors.  Shrieks  from  the  anteroom 
were  then  heard,  and  two  of  her  female  attendants 
who  slept  there  burst  into  her  apartments  with  di^ 
sheveled  hair,  and  clung  to  her,  looking  back  with 
wild  terror.  The  queen,  not  entirely  unprepared  for 
this  scene,  stood  motionless,  as  an  armed  knight  pre 
sented  himself  on  the  threshold,  apparently  uncer 
tain  whether  to  advance.  On  seeing,  however,  that 
the  queen  had  not  yet  retired,  but  was  standing,  com 
pletely  dressed,  beneath  the  antique  golden  lamp  sus 
pended  from  the  centre  of  her  apartment,  he  stepped 
into  the  room  with  an  air  of  deep  respect.  Behind 
him,  in  the  doorway,  appeared  the  grim  faces  of  sev 
eral  Hungarian  soldiers  ;  and  as  the  knight  looked 

25 


290  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

back  impatiently,  the  cowled  head  of  a  monk  pre 
sented  itself  also.  The  quick  eye  of  Joanna  dis 
cerned  it,  though  in  the  dim  background  ;  and  find 
ing  that  the  foremost  intruder  still  hesitated,  she  said 
calmly,  "  I  pray  you,  sir  knight,  approach,  and  sum 
mon  hither  the  rest  of  your  party,  that  I  may  know 
to  whom  I  am  indebted  for  a  visit  so  well  timed  and 
courteous.  How  !  The  Baron  di  Castiglione  !  —  a 
brave  and  honorable  knight,  as  I  have  been  wont  to 
think  him  !  —  and  in  his  company  the  dark-robed, 
lowering  Dominican  I  marked  to-day,  and  a  band  of 
foreign  ruffians !  Pleasant  and  fitting  guests  to  enter 
a  queen's  chamber  at  this  dead  hour !  It  is  well  that 
sorrow  keeps  vigils,  or  you  might  have  chased  gay 
dreams  from  my  pillow.  May  I  ask  what  midnight 
work  hath  been  assigned  you  by  your  noble  mas 
ter  ?  " 

"  Most  august  princess,"  began  the  Baron  ;  but 
Joanna  interrupted  him:  —  "Nay,  spare  the  courtesy 
of  soft  words,  good  Baron,  when  the  deeds  are  so 
rough." 

The  monk  now  came  forward,  planted  himself  be 
fore  the  queen,  threw  back  the  cowl  from  his  fore 
head,  and  fixing  his  sternest  glance  upon  her,  said,  in 
a  harsh,  imperious  tone,  —  "We  come  from  Charles 
the  Third,  king  of  Naples,  your  sovereign  and  ours; 
and  the  business  that  brings  us  is  of  import  too  press 
ing  to  wait  for  daylight." 

The  queen  bowed  her  head  slightly  and  said,  — 
"  I  know  whom  you  mean  to  designate  by  these 
titles.  What  is  your  master's  pleasure  ?  " 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  291 

"  That  you  sign  this  document,"  returned  the 
monk  abruptly,  extending  to  her  a  scroll. 

Joanna  took  it,  cast  her  eye  over  it  carelessly,  and 
dropping  it  on  the  floor,  placed  her  foot  upon  it. 
Then  drawing  her  proud  figure  up  to  its  full  height, 
she  inquired,  —  "  Is  this  all  ?  Know  you  not  that  my 
declaration  to  the  barons  of  Provence  renders  all  re 
cantation  useless  ?  You  were  present  at  the  inter 
view  ;  you  heard  my  words.  You  were  aware  it 
would  be  an  idle  form  to  subscribe  this  worthless 
document  ;  men  would  know  it  to  have  been  extort 
ed  from  me.  Shame  on  Charles  to  palter  thus  !  What 
else  doth  he  demand  ?  " 

"  That  you  promise  to  attend  the  meeting  of  Ital 
ian  nobles  he  will  summon  to-rnorrow,  and  there 
formally  and  publicly  disclaim  your  proceedings  of 
this  morning,  acknowledging  yourself  possessed  of 
no  right  to  wear  or  bequeathe  the  crown  of  these 
realms." 

"  Hath  Charles  the  shadow  of  an  expectation  that 
I  shall  so  far  loose  my  reason  ?  Tell  him  that  if  I 
obey  his  summons,  it  shall  be  to  his  sorrow ;  that  if  I 
come  before  the  nobles  of  my  country,  it  shall  be  to 
declare  my  rights,  to  protest  against  his  injustice  and 
iniquity,  to  rouse  the  loyalty  and  chivalry  which  are 
sleeping,  not  dead,  in  the  bosoms  of  belted  knights. 
I  will  not  deceive  him.  It  would  be  my  heart's  wish 
to  meet  him  face  to  face  before  the  world,  and  make 
a  solemn  appeal  to  God  and  mankind.  These  wan 
cheeks,  the  accents  of  truth  and  injured  innocence. 


292  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

his  own  accusing  conscience  and  inward  shame, 
would  give  me  a  power  over  the  hearts  of  my  hear 
ers,  that  would  reseat  me  on  the  throne  of  my  an 
cestors.  He  knows  it ;  he  dares  not  trust  me  with 
such  opportunity  ;  he  has  no  thought  of  it,  and  the 
mockery  covers  some  further  meditated  wrong.  What 
more  ?  " 

"  The  alternative,"  said  the  Baron,  in  a  low  voice 
to  Father  Matteo ;  "  tell  her  the  alternative  at  once." 

"  There  is  an  alternative,  then  ?  "  asked  the  queen, 
with  some  eagerness. 

"  A  prison  in  the  Apennines,"  was  the  stern  reply 
of  the  monk. 

Joanna  involuntarily  uttered  an  ejaculation  of  dis 
may,  and  a  brief  pause  succeeded  ;  then,  folding  her 
arms  across  her  breast,  and  bowing  her  head,  she  said 
composedly,  "I  choose  it." 

"Most  noble  Joanna,"  exclaimed  the  Baron  di  Cas- 
tiglione,  "  think  well,  I  conjure  you.  What  boots 
vain  resistance?  Why  struggle  with  power  that  must 
overmaster  all  opposition  ?  Bend,  while  the  storm 
goes  by." 

"  Never  !  The  reed  in  the  valley  may  bend  and 
escape  destruction,  but  the  pine  on  the  mountain 
must  break.  The  storm  will  not  pass  while  Joanna 
cumbers  the  earth,  unless  the  heart  of  the  ambitious 
man  again  become  that  of  a  child,  and  he  put  away 
evil  counsellors,  that  foster  his  ruling  passions.  Few, 
very  few  of  my  own  nobles  has  he  bribed  or  sub 
dued  ;  those  who  are  true  to  me  shall  never  blush 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  293 

for  the  womanly  faintheartedness  of  Joanna,  nor  say 
that  she  set  them  the  example  of  subserviency.  I 
reign  in  the  hearts  of  my  people  ;  and  therefore  it  is 
that  these  hollow  propositions  are  sent  to  me  in  haste 
and  secrecy,  that  night  may  cover  the  approaching 
crime.  Should  he  drag  me  a  prisoner  through  the 
streets  of  Naples,  beneath  open  day " 

"  Time  wears  !  "  interrupted  Father  Matteo  ;  "  our 
messages  are  spoken,  and  her  choice  is  made.  Baron 
di  Castiglione,  she  is  your  charge." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  Baron ;  "  the  business  is  too 
weighty  for  such  unseemly  despatch.  Decide  not  so 
hastily,  lady;  the  castles  of  the  mountains  are  dreary 
abodes  •  and  she  who  has  reigned  in  the  most  luxuri 
ous  court  of  Europe  dreams  not  of  the  lonely,  com 
fortless,  heart-breaking  hours  that  await  her." 

"  Good  Baron,"  said  the  queen,  "  I  read  in  your 
eye  the  respectful  compassion  that  my  situation 
claims,  and  I  thank  you  for  it.  Pity  not  me,  how 
ever  ;  pity  rather  your  own  deluded  master.  My 
choice  is  hasty,  not  rash.  There  are  emergencies  in 
life  when  thought  rushes  with  unwonted  rapidity 
through  the  brain,  and  the  soul  distinguishes  right 
from  wrong  with  the  lightning  glance  of  intuition. 
My  principles  have  been  years  in  forming  ;  their  op 
eration  is  instantaneous.  Bear  me  to  my  quiet  pris 
on  ;  and  believe  not  that  Charles  will  be  happier  on 
a  usurped  throne,  than  I  in  rny  unjust  confinement. 
Holy  Father,  tell  him  that,  as  I  have  bequeathed  to 
Louis  of  Anjou  my  dominions,  to  him  I  send  this 

25* 


294  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

arrow  ;  —  so  keen,  so  barbed,  shall  be  the  thought  of 
Joanna  in  his  bosom.  I  am  ready.  Is  it  not  the 
prince's  pleasure  that  we  set  forth  to-night  ? " 

"  It  is  so,"  answered  the  monk ;  "  and  every  ar 
rangement  is  iflade." 

"  Ay,"  said  Joanna,  "  it  was  wisely  done  ;  the  re 
sult  of  this  visit  was  easily  foreseen.  My  women,  — 
are  they  not  to  accompany  me  ?  " 

"  Not  one." 

The  queen  changed  countenance  ;  and  the  cries 
of  her  attendants  again  broke  forth  at  this  harsh  pro 
hibition.  "  It  is  well,"  said  Joanna,  recovering  her 
self-possession ;  "  I  would  not  have  my  poor  maidens 
share  my  unkind  fortunes,  though  the  tenderness  of 
my  own  sex,  and  the  sympathy  of  those  who  loved 
me,  might  have  poured  one  drop  of  sweetness  into 
the  bitter  cup.  Farewell,  my  faithful  friends !  Pray 
for  me.  It  would  have  been  difficult  to  break  my 
heart,  if  cheered  in  adversity  by  your  affection, 
therefore  you  must  stay.  May  you  find  no  harsher 
mistress  than  I  have  been  !  Go  to  Margaret  of  Du- 
razzo.  They  tell  me  she  lies  on  a  sick  bed  at  Rome, 
but  I  know  that  my  sweet  niece  is  true  to  me  yet. 
Carry  her  my  blessing,  and  say,  that  could  I  have 

looked  once  more  on  her  beloved  face Lead 

forward,  good  Baron  !  it  is  no  hour  for  tears  !  " 

So  saying,  the  queen  disengaged  herself  from  the 
weeping  women,  who  still  clung  round  her  person, 
wrapped  herself  in  a  large  mantle  and  veil,  and  refus 
ing  to  listen  to  further  expostulation  from  Di  Casti- 


JOANNA    OF   NAPLES.  295 

glione,  followed  the  monk  with  a  firm  step  from  the 
apartment. 

Lighted  by  torches,  the  party  went  down  to  the 
vaults  of  the  castle,  and  proceeding  through  damp 
passages,  which  the  sunbeam  had  never  reached,  and 
whose  solid  masonry  seemed  to  defy  time  and  vio 
lence,  they  emerged  from  the  very  foundations  of  the 
building  at  the  water's  edge.  A  large  boat,  well 
manned,  was  in  waiting  ;  and  in  a  few  moments 
more  the  queen  found  herself  bounding  over  the 
waves  that  bore  her  from  a  palace  to  a  prison.  The 
boatmen  pulled  vigorously,  and  as  their  course  was 
due  south,  in  less  than  two  hours  she  was  in  the  cen 
tre  of  that  celebrated  bay,  the  billows  leaping  about 
her  with  the  white  foam  cresting  their  summits,  as 
the  night  breeze  swept  over  them  ;  the  glorious  am 
phitheatre  of  lovely  and  classic  hills  rising  indistinct 
ly  round  nearly  the  whole  horizon,  —  the  heights  of 
Capri  and  Ana-Capri,  with  their  neighbouring  prom 
ontory  before  her,  becoming  every  moment  loftier  to 
the  eye  ;  Vesuvius  on  her  left,  calmly  overlooking 
the  whole  region  like  a  queen  ;  and  far,  far  behind 
her,  Naples,  buried  in  repose  and  .darkness,  as  it  lay 
on  the  gracefully  sweeping  northern  shore,  its  situa 
tion  marked  only  by  a  few  twinkling  lights. 

It  was  long  after  daybreak  when  the  party  landed 
on  the  rocks,  not  far  from  Sorrento,  near  a  spot  af 
terwards  chosen  by  the  Jesuits  for  the  convent  of  La 
Cocomella ;  and  here  a  small  troop  of  horse  awaited 
them.  In  silence  the  queen  mounted,  and  without 


296  JOANXA    OF   NAPLES. 

casting  a  glance  toward  the  noble  relics  of  antiquity 
which  grace  these  shores,  then  far  more  perfect  than 
the  wandering  antiquary  of  these  days  beholds  them, 
she  rode  in  the  centre  of  her  guards  along  the  fine 
road,  now  covered  by  the  encroaching  waves.  Avoid 
ing  the  populous  town,  the  Baron  led  the  way  at  full 
speed  across  the  fertile  plain  of  Sorrento,  where  all 
the  fruits  of  summer  clustered  upon  vine  and  bough- 
over  their  heads ;  and  the  peasantry,  coming  forth  to 
their  morning  labor,  greeted  them  cheerfully  as  they 
passed,  little  dreaming,  while  the  glittering  party 
swept  by,  that  their  beautiful  and  unfortunate  queen 
rode  there  a  disconsolate  prisoner. 

When  they  had  ascended  the  first  ridge  of  the 
mountains  that  approached  the  coast,  Joanna  profited 
by  a  momentary  halt  to  look  back  ;  but  the  vast  and 
magnificent  prospect  that  lay  below  only  called  up 
agonizing  remembrances.  The  remains  of  a  noble 
Roman  aqueduct,  striding  across  the  plain  with  its 
lofty  arches ;  the  white  villages  and  gray  ruins ; 
groves  of  every  shade  of  green  ;  capes,  islands,  and 
the  silver  sea  beyond  all,  fair  in  themselves,  and  hal 
lowed  by  a  thousand  associations,  were  stretched 
forth  under  a  cloudless  sky  and  bright  morning  sun, 
that  seemed  to  rejoice  in  the  beauty  he  beheld  ;  and 
her  heart  yearned  over  the  whole  region  with  a 
mournful  presentiment  that  she  should  never  more 
be  gladdened  by  its  loveliness,  nor  minister  to  the 
happiness  of  its  population.  On  they  went  again, 
down  the  steep  declivity  ;  the  whole  fairy  scene  was 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  297 

shut  from  view,  and  eastward,  before  them,  ex 
tended  the  green  Campagna,  to  the  foot  of  the  eter 
nal  Apennines,  rising  in  gloomy  majesty  to  the  very 
skies. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  next  day,  they  paused 
near  a  monastery  at  the  very  base  of  the  mountains. 
A  tremendous  pass  opened  before  them,  leading  into 
wild,  untrodden  recesses,  from  whose  depths  a  tor 
rent  came  rushing  down  to  the  plains.  The  cliffs 
which  overhung  the  valley,  sometimes  gray  and  bare, 
sometimes  shaggy  with  ancient  forests  of  larch  and 
pine,  seemed  to  the  inexperienced  eye  completely  in 
accessible  ;  but  far  up  among  the  crags,  and  perched 
on  the  very  verge  of  a  precipice,  the  turrets  of  a 
solitary  fortress  caught  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun. 
The  evening  mist  already  crept  sluggishly  along  the 
stream  winding  in  front  of  the  monastery,  and  as  the 
queen  watched  the  illumination  of  the  loftier  and 
more  distant  mountain  peaks,  visible  above  all  nearer 
objects,  the  Baron  di  Castiglione  approached  her,  and, 
with  a  countenance  full  of  sad  meaning,  pointed  to 
the  lonely  castle,  uttering  the  words,  "  II  Muro." 
Joanna  shuddered  "as  she  looked  up  earnestly  at  her 
future  prison,  but  made  no  reply.  Impatient  to  trav 
erse  their  dangerous  road  before  nightfall,  the  Baron 
allowed  but  a  short  halt  at  the  monastery ;  yet  while 
they  pressed  up^the  perilous  ascent,  the  glowing  west 
faded  gradually  away  ;  the  gloom  of  mighty  forests 
hung  over  them  ;  and  Joanna  felt  that  she  was  pass 
ing  through  toil  and  danger  to  a  region  beyond  the 


298  JOANNA  OF  NAPLES. 

reach  of  succour.  More  than  once  their  road  lay 
along  the  side  of  the  mountain,  which  rose  like  a 
wall  on  one  hand,  while  on  the  other  yawned  a  tre 
mendous  chasm  ;  and  the  rude  bridges,  thrown  by 
the  mountaineers  over  the  dashing  waterfalls,  shook 
at  every  step  beneath  their  horses'  feet.  At  last  they 
stood  in  safety  before  the  barbican  of  the  Castle  Mu- 
ro.  A  blast  of  the  horn,  as  in  days  of  yet  more 
ancient  romance,  was  succeeded  by  deathlike  still 
ness  ;  and  then  the  mountain  solitudes  rang  back 
the  unfrequent  sound  with  their  clear,  sweet  echoes. 
Rude  and  dark  were  the  towers  which  rose  against 
the  sky ;  and  presently  red  torch-light  flashed  through 
their  few  windows.  Bewildered  and  almost  stupe 
fied  by  the  strangeness  of  her  situation,  Joanna  was 
scarcely  conscious  when  the  gates  were  thrown  open ; 
and  she  crossed  the  drawbridge,  the  outer  court,  and 
was  passing  under  the  heavy  gateway  of  the  inner 
wall,  when  the  harsh  clang  of  the  external  gate,  as 
it  closed  behind  her,  shutting  out  the  world  and  all 
it  held  dear,  smote  on  her  heart  like  a  death-knell. 
Then,  indeed,  the  iron  entered  her  soul ;  and  the 
words  "  God  help  me  !  "  escaped  her  with  a  deep 
groan,  as  the  captive  queen,  amid  a  throng  of  wild, 
banditti-like  soldiery,  placed  her  foot  on  the  thresh 
old  of  her  prison. 


JOANNA    OF   NAPLES.  299 


CHAPTER    XII. 

IT  were  vain  to  attempt  details  of  the  trial  which 
now  fell  upon  the  persecuted  Joanna.  The  weary 
monotony  of  a  prisoner's  day  may  be  conceived ;  but 
how  very  weary  its  unoccupied  hours  became  to  her, 
whose  life  had  been  devoted  to  constant  and  high 
employment;  full  of  variety,  full  of  incident,  cannot 
be  described.  Her  imprisonment  was,  in  one  sense 
of  the  word,  solitary ;  for  though  two  or  three  fe 
males  attended  her  to  perform  menial  offices,  and  the 
commander  of  the  garrison  had  access  to  her  pres 
ence,  she  found  them  rough  arid  ignorant  almost  to 
barbarism  ;  and  the  loneliness  of  the  heart  and  in 
tellect  was  total ;  the  affections  of  the  one,  the  cul 
tivation  of  the  other,  for  a  time  seemed  wasted.  The 
world  was  not  then  flooded  with  books,  and  none 
were  sent  to  beguile  the  irksomeness  of  her  exist 
ence.  By  a  refinement  of  inhumanity,  idleness  was 
made  part  of  the  discipline  intended  to  break  her 
spirits.  Thrown  on  the  resources  alone  of  her  own 
mind,  she  found  memory  for  ever  busy  with  the  past, 
calling  up  its  checkered  scenes  with  cruel  fidelity  ; 
while  hope  shrank  away,  because  the  future  had  no 
bright  spot  to  which  she  could  point  with  her  angel 
smile.  The  suddenness  of  the  transition  at  first 
stunned  and  benumbed  the  queen's  energies  ;  and 
there  were  hours  when  she  felt  that  incessant  mus- 


300  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

ing,  still  thinking  and  thinking,  without  the  slightest 
interruption  to  reflections  so  engrossing  and  bitter, 
would  almost  drive  her  to  distraction.  But  hers  was 
not  a  mind  to  be  thus  unhinged  and  shattered  ;  and 
though  there  was  nothing  in  her  situation  which 
she  could  grasp  at  and  convert  into  happiness,  she 
sought  refuge  from  madness  in  pursuits  that  could 
have  claimed  slight  interest  under  other  circum 
stances. 

The  love  of  nature,  ever  strongest  in  the  most 
finely  developed  characters,  did,  indeed,  sometimes 
win  her  from  sorrowful  contemplations,  as  she  looked 
from  her  lofty  turret  window  on  the  rugged,  moun 
tain  scenery  about  the  Castle  Muro,  and  watched  the 
effects  of  ever-changing  lights  and  shadows  on  the 
same  immutable  objects.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the 
mere  creation  of  clouds  alone  had  filled  the  world 
with  variety,  and  given  to  the  broad  skies  perpetual 

» 

novelty  with  their  ever-shifting  scenery  ;  while  the 
mountain  peaks,  sometimes  shrouded  in  mists,  some 
times  glittering  in  sunshine,  seemed  almost  to  lose 
their  identity,  so  different  was  the  aspect  they  wore 
under  various  states  of  trie  atmosphere.  One  win 
dow  of  her  turret  looked  down  the  pass,  and  com 
manded  a  distant  view  of  green  fields,  smiling  like 
some  calm,  remote  Elysium ;  the  other  opened  to  the 
east  a  prospect  as  rough  and  savage,  as  if  formed 
only  for  the  abode  of  the  mountain  blast,  the  torrent, 
and  the  wild  bandit.  Thence  came  the  frequent  hur 
ricane,  roaring  fearfully  as  it  passed  down  the  gorge, 


JOAXXA   OF   NAPLES.  301 

and  tearing  up  the  young  pines  by  the  roots  ;  while 
the  aged  trunks,  that  had  withstood  the  storms  of 
centuries,  rocked  with  all  their  mighty  branches  in 
the  gale.  There,  too,  in  the  summer  mornings,  she 
watched  the  timid  ibex,  that  inhabitant  of  earth's 
upper  regions,  tossing  her  fantastically  twisted  horns, 
as  she  glided  along  the  edge  of  some  aerial  cliff,  or 
led  her  young  to  drink  of  the  brooks  that  gleamed 
through  the  trees.  The  autumn  saddened  around  her 
at  last  ;  and  one  morning  she  looked  forth,  and  the 
mountain-tops  were  white  with  snow.  Then  came 
on  the  horrors  of  the  long,  long  winter.  Its  inclem 
encies  reached  her  ;  the  fierce  music  of  its  storms 
howled  round  her  lofty  dwelling,  as  she  lay  thinking 
of  the  absent  ;  and  apparently  forgotten  both  by 
friend  and  foe,  she  suffered  on  for  months,  silently 
and  patiently,  hoping  that  the  frail  dust  which  held 
her  spirit  in  such  bondage  would  at  length  dissolve, 
and  that  the  wild-flowers  of  the  mountains  would 
blossom,  with  the  breath  of  spring,  upon  her  grave. 

Strong  as  her  mind  was  by  nature,  it  had  derived 
fresh  strength  from  the  development  of  the  religious 
principle,  during  her  hours  of  solitary  reflection, 
where  God  spoke  to  her  through  his  sublimest 
works  ;  and  all  idle  forms  and  pomps,  devise'd  by 
man,  came  no  longer  between  her  soul  and  its  Mak 
er.  The  purest  exercises  of  devotion,  in  which  her 
spirit  addressed  itself  spontaneously  to  the  Best  of 
beings  for  protection  and  support,  had  become  fa 
miliar  to  her  mind ;  and  without  a  thought  of  heresy, 


302  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

her  faith  had  been  ripened  by  circumstances,  and 
was  in  advance  of  the  age  in  which  she  lived.  The 
tenets  of  Lollardism  had  indeed  reached  her  ear;  but 
it  was  her  own  vigorous  reason  that  had  thus  taught 
her  to  improve  her  unsought  opportunities  of  medi 
tation.  In  those  moments  of  weakness  and  despon 
dency,  to  which  human  nature  is  ever  liable,  — when 
the  faces  she  best  loved  haunted  her  waking  dreams, 
until  homesickness  seemed  to  melt  her  very  soul,  — 
then  came,  too,  that  consoling  confidence  in  Infinite 
Goodness,  which  had  been  born  of  wise  reflections 
on  past  events.  Happy  are  those  to  whom  a  pause 
in  life's  bustle  is  allowed,  that  they  may  ruminate 
and  learn  for  themselves  how  various  are  the  garbs 
which  mercy  wears,  how  inexhaustible  the  resour 
ces  against  sorrow  which  are  granted  in  the  privi 
lege  of  addressing  ourselves  to  our  Father  in  heav 
en.  The  heart  of  the  Catholic  queen  became  filled 
in  her  solitude  with  the  piety  expressed  in  these 
later  days  from  a  New  England  pulpit,  with  such 
beautiful  simplicity,  —  "  Can  he  murmur  who  can 
pray  ?  " 

As  the  spring  opened,  more  than  one  haughty  mes 
sage  from  Durazzo  broke  upon  her  solitude,  demand 
ing  written  concessions  and  acknowledgments,  which 
her  sense  of  duty  still  forbade ;  and  she  refused  com 
pliance  in  a  tone  of  calni  dignity,  and  with  an  im 
perturbable  sweetness  of  manner,  which  astonished 
and  melted  his  ambassadors.  No  murmur  or  re 
proaches  escaped  her  lips ;  no  petitions  for  relief  mo- 


JOANNA    OF   NAPLES.  303 

lested  her  conqueror  ;  no  vehemence  marked  her  de 
portment.  Resignationrtnot  sullenness,  was  in  that 
tranquil  air  ;  and  though  her  aspect  showed  that  she 
had  suffered,  those  who  held  intercourse  with  her  by 
the  command  of  Durazzo  left  her  with  a  feeling  of 
deep,  involuntary  reverence  for  one  who  seemed  ex 
alted  rather  than  crushed  by  earthly  calamity. 

In  the  mean  time  a  winter  of  wretchedness  had 
passed  over  the  usurper's  head.  Opposition  and  diffi 
culty  had  met  him  at  every  turn.  The  crown  sat 
uneasy  on  his  brows  ;  for  not  one  moment  of  peace 
had  his  bosom  known,  since  the  coveted  prize  had 
been  won.  Continually  in  arms  against  the  enraged 
nobility  of  the  kingdom,  who,  with  few  exceptions, 
had  embraced  the  cause  of  Joanna, — harassed  by 
the  demands  of  Urban,  who  imperiously  claimed  the 
promised  domains  of  Capua  for  his  nephew,  which 
it  was  out  of  his  power  to  bestow,  —  shut  out  from 
domestic  enjoyment  by  the  illness  of  his  wife  at 
Rome,  and  the  unsettled  state  of  his  affairs,  —  domi 
neered  over  by  his  confessor,  who  had  ascertained 
the  weak  points  of  his  character,  and,  made  insolent 
by  success,  played  on  his  ambition,  his  superstition, 
and  his  impetuosity  with  masterly  skill,  —  Charles 
became  daily  more  eager  for  power,  more  reckless 
of  the  means  by  which  it  might  be  gained,  more 
remorseless  as  he  looked  back  on  the  steps  already 
taken.  The  gentler  traits  of  his  moral  constitution 
were  obliterated,  one  by  one,  as  he  rushed  along  his 
downward  and  bloody  career.  His  cheerfulness  van- 


304  JOANNA    OF   NAPLES. 

ished  ;  his  temper  became  soured  ;  his  heart  grew 
heavy  and  cold,  and  the  open  smile  of  his  earlier 
and  better  days  was  gone  for  ever  from  his  counte 
nance.  Unable  to  shake  off  the  irritating  conscious 
ness  of  his  guilt,  yet  panting  still  for  its  fruits,  the 
gallant  Prince  of  Durazzo  was  fast  becoming  the 
selfish,  relentless  tyrant.  So  the  opening  spring  of 
1383  found  the  conqueror  of  Joanna. 

It  was  early  in  the  month  of  April,  that  Francis 
Prignano,  or  Butillo,  as  he  is  styled  by  some  histori 
ans,  the  nephew  of  Urban,  returned  to  Rome,  after 
a  long  excursion,  and  accidentally  learned  that  the 
Princess  of  Durazzo  yet  lay  there,  the  victim  of 
some  lingering  malady.  The  threat  of  his  cruel  rel 
ative  flashed  on  his  recollection,  and  a  feeling  of 
compassion  for  the  youthful  sufferer  stirred  his  heart. 
Urban  was  absent  from  the  city,  and  the  opportunity 
was  not  to  be  lost.  A  secret  intimation  was  con 
veyed  to  the  princess's  trusty  attendants  ;  the  pre 
scriptions  of  the  Pope's  physicians  were  neglected, 
and  before  the  return  of  his  Holiness,  the  evident 
amendment  in  the  strength  of  fhe  princess  allowed 
them  to  transport  her  privately  from  his  dominions, 
and  she  was  conveyed  to  the  genial  atmosphere  of 
Baias.  Here  her  health  rapidly  improved. 

It  was  at  this  period  that  the  aged  and  palsy- 
stricken  Wickliffe  was  lifting  up  a  voice  from  his  re 
tirement  at  Lutterworth,  which  rung  more  clearly 
through  Christendom  as  the  hour  approached  which 
was  to  hush  its  accents  for  ever  ;  and  this,  too,  was 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  805 

the  year  in  which  the  hot-headed  young  Henry 
Spencer,  Bishop  of  Norwich,  undertook  his  mad  cru 
sade  in  favor  of  Urban  against  the  Lollards  in  Flan 
ders  ;  while  the  schism  which  so  fatally  degraded 
the  dignity  and  lessened  the  power  of  the  .Catholic 
Church  went  on  fiercely,  and  the  Pope  of  Rome,  en 
grossed  with  so  many  other  cares,  had  no  leisure  to 
think  of  protracting  the  separation  of  Margaret  from 
her  husband.  Father  Matteo  rejoiced  that,  while 
Charles  was"  fighting  in  the  southern  part  of  his  do 
minions,  against  rebellious  barons,  she  was  not  like 
ly  to  seek  him  ;  and  she,  thus  overlooked  in  her 
hours  of  convalescence,  unceasingly  laid  fond  plans 
to  reclaim  her  unhappy  lord  to  the  paths  of  honor, 
duty,  and  virtue  ;  so  hard  is  it  for  woman  to  credit 
the  utter  extinction  of  good  principles  in  the  heart 
she  has  prized  ;  so  true  is  it,  that  the  veriest  repro 
bate  may  find  in  the  bosom  of  mother  or  wife  some 
thing  that  still  hopes  and  pleads,  when  all  mankind 
beside  may  have  delivered  him  over  to  his  sins  and 
their  consequences  ! 

The  tumultuous  state  of  the  country  kept  her  for 
some  time  inactive  :  but  at  last  tidings  reached  her, 
that  Durazzo  had  been  defeated  in  a  severe  skirmish 
among  the  Calabrian  wilds,  and  was  about  to  return 
to  Naples.  She  determined  to  set  forth  without  de 
lay,  and,  accompanied  by  a  strong  escort,  to  meet  him 
near  the  mountains  which  encircled  the  Castle  Muro. 
In  this  hour  of  defeat  and  discouragement,  she  trust 
ed  that  an  appeal  to  his  reason  and  his  heart,  in  the 


306  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

very  neighbourhood  of  his  august  captive,  might  un 
bar  the  gates  of  that  prison,  give  back  their  queen  to 
a  distracted  people,  restore  peace  to  her  husband,  and 
long-forgotten  happiness  to  herself. 

The  gloom  of  twilight  was  fast  obscuring  the 
landscape  round  the  monastery  of  Santa  Maria,  on 
the  evening  of  May  the  twenty-first,  when  the  dis 
pirited  and  weary  troops  of  Durazzo  came  filing 
through  the  mountains  south  of  the  plain.  They 
were  to  halt  for  the  night  near  the  base  of  those 
cliffs  which  were  crowned  by  the  gray  turrets  of  II 
Muro  ;  and  Charles,  acquainted  with  the  localities  of 
these  regions,  approached  to  take  possession  of  the 
quiet  little  monastery,  which  stood  in  the  centre 
of  the  plain,  without  daring  to  look  up  at  the  pris 
on  of  his  benefactress,  as  it  frowned  on  him  from 
the  heights,  which,  on  the  east,  bounded  the  level 
grounds.  His  march  had  been  hurried  and  toilsome ; 
for  the  snows,  melting  among  the  Apennines,  aided 
by  heavy  rains,  had  swollen  every  brook  to  a  torrent  ; 
and  the  roads,  at  all  times  steep  and  rough,  had  been 
rendered  almost  impassable  by  masses  of  earth  and 
rock,  and  fallen  trees,  strewed  over  them  by  the 
waters  and  winds.  He  followed  in  the  rear  of  his 
troops,  mounted  on  a  jaded  horse,  who  stumbled 
with  fatigue  under  his  master,  as  he  descended  the 
last  hill  that  swept  down  to  the  plains ;  and  with 
his  head  sunk  on  his  breast,  the  rider  vented  the 
moodiness  of  his  mind  in  frequent  ejaculations  of 
impatience  at  the  worn-out  animal.  Changed,  — 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  307 

changed,  indeed,  was  the  whole  outward  aspect  of 
that  warrior,  within  one  short  twelvemonth.  He 
was  clad  yet  in  the  complete  steel,  whose  fashion 
had  just  superseded  that  of  mail,  when  the  introduc 
tion  of  artillery  threatened  to  render  it  as  useless  as 
it  was  cumbrous  ;  but  he  no  longer  bore  himself 
aloft  with  the  noble,  chivalrous  air  of  his  more  vir 
tuous  days.  The  solid  helmet  pressed  no  more  heav 
ily  on  his  brows  than  of  yore  ;  but  he  was  weighed 
down  by  the  consciousness  of  guilt,  which  lay  on 
him  as  a  mighty  burden,  and  still  more  by  that 
which  he  deemed  a  necessity  for  crimes  yet  more 
fearful.  His  closed  visor  hid  a  face  darkened  by  the 
terrible  meditations  of  his  soul. 

His  evil  genius  came  to  meet  him  under  the  om 
inous  shadows  of  the  primeval  forest;  Father  Matteo 
had  awaited  him  for  some  hours  at  the  monastery, 
and  now  rode  forth  to  communicate  tidings  which 
were  of  no  small  import. 

"  What  is  that  you  say  ?  "  exclaimed  Durazzo, 
starting  from  a  sullen  reverie  ;  "  Louis  has  crossed 
the  Alps  ?  —  and  with  what  force  ?  " 

"  Rumor  tells  so  wild  a  story,"  answered  the  priest, 
"  that  we  can  lend  her  little  credit.  They  say  the 
plains  about  Bologna  shake  under  the  tramp  of  thirty 
thousand  cavalry." 

"  Impossible  !  impossible  !  "  cried  Charles,  "  unless 
some  wily  sorcerer  hath  called  up  armed  knights  and 
chargers  from  the  ground,  to  take  the  field  for  An- 
jou." 


308  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

"  Ay,"  resumed  the  monk,  "  and  whirled  them 
through  the  air  across  those  Alpine  barriers.  But 
allowing  for  all  probable  exaggerations,  we  may  well 
fear  that  he  brings  with  him  a  force  sufficient  to  ac 
complish  his  avowed  object." 

"  And  what  may  that  be,  if  not  to  war  on  us  ?  " 

"  His  immediate  purpose  is  to  release  Joanna  from 
her  confinement." 

Durazzo's  gesture  indicated  his  surprise  and  anger, 
but  he  made  no  reply. 

"  There  are  tidings  also  from  the  city,"  continued 
Father  Matteo,  after  a  brief  pause.  "  I  left  it  be 
cause  I  saw  that  the  Wild  Horse*  of  Naples  grew 
restive  ;  and  a  courier,  this  afternoon,  brought  news 
of  an  insurrection  among  that  idle  and  innumerable 
populace." 

"  We  will  carry  them  snowballs  from  the  moun 
tains,"  said  Durazzo,  with  a  sneer  ;  "  it  is  easy  to 
cool  the  fever  of  Neapolitan  patriotism  with  a  little 
iced  water." 

Father  Matteo  shook  his  head.  "  Their  Q,ueen 
Joanna,  as  they  style  her,  still  sits  on  an  invisible 
throne  in  the  bosom  of  each  poor  man  in  the  city. 
The  affections  are  spiritual,  my  son,  and  you  will 
find  it  hard  to  use  sword  and  lance  against  these 
shadowy  opposers." 

"  Peace  !  I  pray  you,  good  father,"  exclaimed 
Charles ;  "I  will  take  order  with  these  lounging 

*  An  emblem  on  the  banner  of  the  Neapolitan  populace. 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  309 

knaves.  Came  not  Castiglione  with  you  to  meet 
me?" 

"  He  hath  declared  against  you." 

"  He,  —  Di  Castiglione  !  "  cried  the  usurper,  with 
unconcealed  dismay  ;  —  "  the  man  I  have  trusted 
again  and  again  !  He  that  has  fought  battle  after 
battle  by  my  side  !  I  gave  him  charge  of  my  wife, 
when  she  came  last  year  to  meet  me  ;  I  commis 
sioned  him  to  carry  yonder  headstrong  woman  to 
her  cage,  because  I  thought  his  gentle  courtesy  fitted 
him  for  such  task  ;  but  I  deemed  him  true  as  steel. 
Are  you  well  advised  of  what  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  am,"  replied  the  monk,  with  a  laconic  cool 
ness,  which  was  peculiarly  irritating  to  his  fiery  com 
panion. 

"  And  what  more?  Come, — these  are  all  refresh 
ing  tidings  after  a  defeat  and  a  weary  day's  journey. 
Have  you  no  more  blessed  news  for  me  ?  I  shall 
sleep  soundly  after  these  anodynes." 

"  Di  Castiglione  has  tampered  with  the  barons 
who  gave  you  the  preference  over  Anjou,  because, 
they  said,  no  Frenchman  should  wear  the  crown  of 
Naples  ;  and  three  of  them  —  the  very  three  whom 
you  lately  sent  with  propositions  to  yonder  castle  — 
have  joined  him  in  his  revolt." 

"  So,  so  ;  our  prospect  brightens  apace  !  She  has 
but  to  look  upon  my  best  followers  with  her  proud 
smiles,  and  the  bonds  of  their  allegiance  dissolve.  I 
think  we  will  send  her  no  more  messengers,  —  no 
more  false-hearted  barons  ;  you  shall  deal  with  her, 
good  father.  Were  it  not  wise  ?  " 


310  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

"  They  say,"  resumed  the  priest,  "  that  the  hard 
ships  of  this  winter  have  undermined  her  health  ; 
that  she  hath  been  ill." 

"  111  !  "  repeated  Durazzo,  his  dark  eye  flashing 
through  his  visor.  "  You  have  spoken  one  word  of 
pleasing  import  at  last.  She  is  of  flesh,  —  and  all 
flesh  must  fade  ;  she  will  not  live  for  ever.  Ay,  ay; 
when  she  perishes  from  my  path,  all  other  obstacles 
will  shrink  aside,  or  be  as  nothing.  What  is  her 
malady  ?  " 

"  Men  will  call  it  a  broken  heart ;  a  tedious  dis 
ease,  my  son." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  asked  the  prince  impatiently  ;  — 
"hath  she  no  burning  fever? — no  wasting  consump 
tion  in  her  blood  ?  —  nothing  that  promises  her  a 
speedy  deliverance  from  those  high  walls  ?  " 

"  Nothing  of  that  sort.  I  said  she  had  been  ill  ; 
but  it  was  some  slight,  passing  distemper,  that  hath 
already  left  her  ;  the  rumor  thereof,  in  all  likelihood, 
will  excite  fresh  sympathies  in  her  behalf.  If  the 
eagles  of  the  air  carry  her  tidings  of  all  that  is  un 
dertaken  for  her  release,  she  will  begin  a  new  life  ; 
for  the  hope  of  freedom  is  an  efficient  cordial  for  the 
sick  captive." 

"  Freedom  !  "  muttered  the  chieftain ;  "  there  is  but 
one  freedom  for  her." 

"  I  would  her  sickness  had  been  unto  death,"  said 
Father  Matteo  ;  "  at  this  crisis  it  might  have  been 
your  salvation." 

He  made  this  remark  thoughtfully,   and  with  a 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  811 

side  glance  endeavoured  to  observe  its  effect  on  his 
companion,  but  the  sudden  halt  of  the  prince  startled 
him.  .  The  flush  of  sunset  had  Ipng  since  died  away, 
but  a  pale,  amber  light  yet  lingered  on  the  western 
horizon  ;  the  new  moon  and  the  evening  star  hung 
there,  side  by  side  ;  and  as  the  two  riders  emerged 
from  under  the  trees,  Charles,  turning  upon  his  com 
panion,  threw  up  his  visor,  under  the  soft  radiance 
of  that  most  beautiful  hour.  Never  was  there  a 
more  fearful  contrast  with  the  tranquillity  of  nature. 
If  the  iron  frame  of  that  monk  could  have  shaken 
with  human  feeling,  he  would  have  trembled  as  he 
looked  on  the  dreadful  expression  of  Durazzo's  feat 
ures.  "  Father  Matteo  !  "  said  the  unhappy  man,  in 
a  low,  hollow  voice,  "  look  on  me  and  read  what  is 
in  my  heart !  You  have  the  fiend-like  power  to  pen 
etrate  its  gloomy  recesses,  and  call  its  unformed  pur 
poses  of  evil  into  being.  Tell  me  how  to  shape  its 
present  designs  !  " 

The  crafty  monk  saw  that  he  was  no  longer  called 
on  to  suggest  iniquity,  but  to  aid  in  its  accomplish 
ment  ;  the  triumph  of  the  Prince  of  Darkness  was 
complete  over  the  once  struggling  victim,  and  the 
work  was  nearly  done.  With  wary  hesitation,  he 
gazed  on  the  prince  irresolutely,  as  if  uncertain  how 
to  understand  him  ;  but  Charles  exclaimed  more  ve 
hemently,  —  "  Why  do  you  not  answer  me  ?  You 
do,  —  you  must  comprehend  !  Is  there  more  than 
one  deed  that  hath  no  name  ?  " 

"  My  son,"  replied  the  monk,   "  I  have  said  that 


312  JOANNA    OF  NAPLES. 

the  death  of  Joanna  would  be  your  salvation  ;  do  I 
understand  you  now  ?  " 

Durazzo  shuddered  and  looked  round  wildly,  as 
the  night  breeze  came  rustling  through  the  forest  be 
hind  them.  "  Who  goes  there  ?  "  cried  he  ;  "  have 
we  not  listeners  in  the  coppice  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  monk  calmly  ;  "  you  are  agitated, 
my  brave  prince.  Be  composed,  and  let  us  talk  de 
liberately  of  your  affairs.  They  are  in  an  unpromis 
ing  state  assuredly  ;  the  juncture  is  perilous." 

"  Perilous  !  "  interrupted  Charles,  "  it  is  desperate  ; 
it  drives  me  wild.  I  tell  you,  the  storm  breaks  from 
every  quarter  at  once,  and  I  will  endure  its  buffetings 
no  more.  That  woman,"  — and  he  ground  his  teeth 
and  raised  his  gauntleted  hand  towards  the  dark 
mountain,  where  a  twinkling  light  pointed  out  the 
turret  of  Joanna,  —  "  that  woman  is  a  thorn  in  my 
side,  —  an  arrow  in  my  flesh,  —  a  canker  at  my 
heart's  core.  Her  influence  comes  out  from  her  sol 
itary  cell,  and  baffles  me  everywhere,  winning  prince 
and  peasant  by  the  mere  magic  of  her  name.  While 
that  proud  heart  of  hers  throbs  with  life,  there  is 
neither  peace  nor  prosperity  for  her  successor  ;  no 
stability  for  his  throne  ;  no  security  for  his  days. 
See  you  not  this,  father  ? " 

"  I  have  seen  it  long,"  replied  the  monk. 

"  And  can  I  bear  it  ?  " 

"  Not  if  you  are  a  man,  with  energy  enough  to 
snap  the  mere  cobweb  that  entangles  you." 

"  I  could  burst  chains  of  forged  steel !     It  is  not 


JOANNA   OF  NAPLES.  313 

the  rage  of  a  moment  that  nerves  my  arm.  No, 
good  priest  ;  for  many  days  and  nights  past,  my 
mind  has  been  working,  —  working,  —  taking  dead 
lier  hues  from  the  troubles  that  darkened  around  me. 
And  though  I  dared  not  look  steadfastly  on  my  own 
purposes,  as  they  flickered  like  horrid  phantoms  in 
the  void  of  the  future,  I  knew  to  what  I  must 
come.  I  rode  last  night  among  these  savage  moun 
tains  till  daybreak  ;  and  what  think  you  banished 
hunger,  thirst,  fatigue  ?  What  followed  at  my 
horse's  heels,  wailing  in  my  ears  continually,  as  we 
trampled  along  the  rocky  defiles  ?  Some  unseen 
demon,  good  father,  whispering  murder !  murder ! 
all  the  livelong  night." 

The  priest  smiled  :  —  "  This  form  of  frenzy  bodes 
some  spirited  deed,  I  acknowledge,"  said  he  ;  "  but 
the  how,  the  when,  the  where,  if  your  courage 
hold  ?  " 

"  They  must  be  matters  of  prudent  deliberation," 
said  the  prince ;  "  and  as  soon  as  I  have  crushed 

these  gnats  at  Naples " 

"  Pardon  me,"  interrupted  the  monk  ;  "  there  is 
yet  another  item  of  intelligence  I  had  wellnigh  for 
gotten.  The  queen  comes  to  meet  you." 

'•  The  queen  !  "  repeated  Durazzo ;  "  what  queen?  " 
"  The  queen  Margaret,  —  your  royal  consort." 
"  And  what  brings  her  into  these  wild  mountains  ? 
Why  has  she  not  waited  my  summons  ?     These  are 
no  times  for  itinerant  princesses,  when  lances  scour 
the  country  in  every  direction.     What  seeks  she  ?  " 

27 


314  JOANNA    OF   NAPLES. 

"  I  hear  her  errand  is  to  solicit  the  liberation  of 
your  prisoner." 

"  Is  it  so  ?  We  will  not  encounter  her  soft  plead 
ings  ;  we  will  take  another  road." 

"  You  cannot  well  avoid  her  ;  she  and  her  train 
lodge  this  night  at  Capanna.  It  was  her  purpose  to 
meet  you  here ;  but  "the  weariness  of  her  children 
compelled  her  to  halt  at  ten  miles'  distance,  and  she 
will  join  you  early  to-morrow  morning." 

"  She  must  not ;  —  she  shall  not  !  " 

"Nay,"  said  the  monk,  "it  may  matter  little.  She 
may  come  too  late." 

"How?  —  how  so?"  asked  Charles,  somewhat 
bewildered. 

"  Why,"  replied  Father  Matteo,  "  your  prisoner 
has  had  a  most  well-timed  indisposition  of  late.  It 
may  return,  —  it  may  prove  fatal,  —  it  may  save 
your  fair  queen  the  trouble  of  those  eloquent  expos 
tulations  from  which  you  shrink." 

"To-night?  —  do  you  mean  this  very  night?" 
asked  Charles  in  a  whisper,  again  looking  fearfully 
round,  as  if  conscious  that  the  very  stones  of  the  val 
ley  ought  to  cry  out  against  such  foul  conspiracy. 

"Is  not  your  purpose  fixed?"  said  his  companion. 
"  Is  not  the  deed  to  be  done  ?  Is  not  your  condition 
such  as  to  make  it,  not  only  a  matter  of  policy,  but 
necessity  ?  Will  you  have  the  folly  and  feebleness 
to  procrastinate  for  a  single  day  the  one  bold  stroke, 
which  cuts  the  knot  of  your  embarrassments  ?  Shun 
not  this  queen  of  yours  ;  it  would  excite  suspicion. 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  315 

Let  her  come  hither  to-morrow  morning.  Meet  her 
boldly,  and  let  her  hear  the  message  which  will  come 
down  from  II  Muro  before  the  dew  is  off  the  grass. 
Take  my  counsel  once  more,  my  son  ;  for  if  you  have 
not  the  courage  to  do,  at  once,  what  you  perceive  to 
be  fitting,  it  will  never,  —  never  be  done  ;  and  your 
destruction  is  at  hand.  Mark  my  words.  I  have  not 
prompted  you  to  the  deed  ;  but  I  declare  that  noth 
ing  else  can  save  you.  I  offer  to  conduct  the  trans 
action  with  such  secrecy,  that  the  world  shall  never 
cry  aloud,  —  Charles  did  it.  Stealthy  whispers, 
vague  surmises,  may  be  stifled  ;  —  as  yonder  fair- 
spoken  Joanna  might  testify,  from  the  dark  experi 
ences  of  her  own  early  life." 

"  Priest  !  priest  !  "  exclaimed  Charles,  "  tell  me 
one  thing  ;  tell  me  truly.  Was  it  not  all  foul  cal 
umny  ?  Is  her  conscience  heavy  with  a  husband's 
blood  ?  Do  you  believe  it  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  replied  the  monk  with  solemnity. 

Durazzo  looked  him  earnestly  in  the  face  a  mo 
ment,  and  then  his  head  sunk  on  his  breast,  as  he 
groaned  aloud.  "  I  do  not,"  said  he.  "  Would  to 
God  that  I  could  !  I  would  give  half  this  realm  to 
know  that  there  was  a  shadow  of  just  retribution  in 
this  dreadful  measure,  —  to  feel  myself  the  avenger 
of  innocent  blood  ;  but  it  cannot  be  !  My  conviction 
of  her  blameless  uprightness  rests  on  the  close  inter 
course  of  years,  when  in  the  free,  unguarded  com 
munion  Let  us  speak  of  it  no  more.  Her  soul 

will  need  few  masses,  when  I  have  sent  it  to  the 


316  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

long  account, — and  mine, — good  father, — you  will 
shrive  me  !  You  will  give  me  absolution  !  Blessed 
be  the  power  of  the  Church  ;  there  is  no  crime  be 
yond  the  reach  of  its  mercy." 

"  Crime  !  "  said  the  monk  impatiently  ;  —  "  what 
speak  you  of  crime  ?  Could  you  do  the  Church  bet 
ter  service,  than  by  thrusting  this  rebellious  and  ma 
lignant  child  out  of  existence  ?  Is  not  the  seal  of 
perdition  upon  her  ?  Look  for  wreaths  of  gold  and 
palms  of  glory,  my  son  ;  for  you  do  but  perform  the 
will  of  Heaven  in  this  matter.  Blind  and  ignorant 
men  might  cast  censure  on  you,  therefore  let  it  be  a 
deed  of  privacy  and  darkness  ;  but  from  the  great 
Head  of  the  Church,  from  Urban  himself,  approba 
tion,  assistance,  and  all  manner  of  favor  will  descend 
upon  you.  Trust  me ;  he  that  lays  low  the  haughty 
head  of  Joanna  does  God  and  man  service." 

During  this  conversation,  the  two  riders  had  re 
sumed  their  journey,  and  had  now  reached  the  south 
ern  bank  of  the  stream,  which  meandered  through 
the  valley  from  east  to  west.  The  monastery  of 
Santa  Maria  stood  on  the  opposite  side,  and  farther 
up ;  but  the  only  access  to  it  was  over  a  slight  wood 
en  bridge  which  they  were  approaching ;  and  as  they 
caught  the  glimmer  of  its  waves,  dancing  in  the 
moonbeams,  they  perceived  the  river  was  swollen, 
till  the  water  laved  the  very  edges  of  the  rough 
planks,  and  at  times  washed  across  them.  Branches, 
and  even  trunks  of  trees,  hurried  along  by  the  rapid 
current,  were  accumulating  on  the  upper  side  ;  and 


JOANNA    OF   NAPLES.  317 

after  reconnoitring  it  a  few  moments,  as  they  halted 
under  the  willow-trees,  Durazzo  and  his  companion 
crossed  it  singly  and  cautiously,  lest  it  should  be 
swept  from  under  them.  Soon,  afterwards,  finding 
themselves  among  the  soldiery,  they  postponed  their 
fearful  theme^  till  Charles  had  taken  possession  of  a 
friar's  cell  in  the  monastery.  There,  forbidding  all 
intrusion,  he  summoned  his  confessor  to  his  side 
again  ;  and  there,  in  that  quiet  retreat  of  simple 
piety,  shut  in  by  stone  walls,  which  had  been  raised 
to  exclude  all  earthly  temptations  from  its  tenants, 
and  surrounded  only  by  the  emblems  of  religion,  he 
resumed  the  unhallowed  consultation.  We  will  fol 
low  its  details  no  more. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  page  of  Charles,  who  had 
been  sent  forward  by  his  master  to  the  monastery 
before  the  sun  set,  had  become  impatient  and  anx 
ious,  on  seeing  that  the  waters  continued  to  rise  as 
evening  came  on,  and  he  had  gone  back  to  meet 
him.  Crossing  the  little  bridge,  he  had  sat  down  be 
neath  the  willow-trees,  and  almost  exhausted  by  the 
fatigues  of  the  recent  march,  as  he  awaited  his  mas 
ter,  he  looked  up  at  the  stars,  shining  through  the 
long,  slender,  waving  branches,  with  eyes  that,  in 
spite  of  himself,  closed  in  momentary  slumber.  In 
vain  he  struggled  against  it,  straining  his  ears  to 
catch  the  distant  tread  of  horse.  The  waves  mur 
mured  by  him  with  a  most  lulling  sound  ;  the  tall 
sedges,  not  yet  under  water,  rustled  in  the  breeze  ; 
the  gleaming  light  from  the  tower  of  Muro,  on  the 

27* 


318  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

mountain,  seemed  to  recede,  and  become  a  star  in 
the  dark  sky  ;  and  all  things  gradually  assumed  a 
shadowy  and  dreamy  aspect,  till  a  profound  sleep  fell 
irresistibly  on  his  eyelids.  He  woke  not  till  roused 
by  the  tramp  of  steeds  close  at  hand  ;  and  as  he 
started  up,  the  harsh  voice  of  Father  Matteo  struck 
his  ear,  uttering  the  too  intelligible  words,  —  "  He 
that  lays  low  the  head  of  Joanna  does  God  and 
man  service."  His  blood  ran  cold;  —  he  remained 
immovable,  concealed  in  deep  shadow,  while  his 
master  arid  the  monk,  unconscious  of  his  presence, 
debated  on  the  security  of  the  bridge,  finally  crossed 
it,  and  rode  out  of  sight,  leaving  him  petrified  with 
dismay,  as  he  pondered  on  the  ominous  words.  His 
resolution  was  soon  taken.  He  knew  that  Margaret 
was  at  Capanna ;  and  rushing  once  more  over  the 
tottering  bridge,  with  a  fleet,  light  step,  he  procured 
a  horse  among  the  officers,  pretending  that  he  was 
despatched  by  his  master,  and  instantly  took  the 
road  down  the  river-side  to  the  village.  It  was  not 
necessary  to  cross  the  stream  again  ;  and  long  before 
midnight,  he  stood  in  the  presence  of  the  amazed 
wife  of  Durazzo. 

She  heard  his  tale  with  speechless  horror  ;  and 
then  repelled  with  indignation  the  suspicion  that  her 
lord  would  yield  to  suggestions  so  barbarous. 

"  You  know  him  not  as  he  now  is  !  "  exclaimed 
the  youth  ;  "  believe  me,  gentle  lady,  my  beloved 
master  is  an  altered  man.  You  have  not  watched, 
as  I  have  done,  the  terrible  change  stealing  over  him 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  319 

for  months  past ;  his  temper,  —  his  heart,  lady,  —  so 
hardened.  Come  to  him,  I  implore  you  !  You  alone 
can  soften  it ;  you  alone  can  counteract  the  influence 
of  that  dreadful  priest.  Have  mercy  on  your  hus 
band  and  on  the  royal  captive  !  " 

The  agitation  of  Giovanni  could  not  be  witnessed 
without  exciting  some  sympathetic  alarm,  and  Mar 
garet  at  last  assented.  "  If  you  warned  me  that  he 
was  but  threatened  with  a  dangerous  malady,  I 
should  fly  to  him  ;  surely  the  evil  that  endangers 
soul,  instead  of  body,  is  more  fearful  ;  —  and  it  may 
be,  —  it  may  be,  —  that  he  yields.  Holy  Virgin,  aid 
me  !  I  will  go." 

Leaving  the  greater  part  of  her  train  to  follow 
with  her  children  next  day,  Margaret  left  Capanna 
at  midnight,  and  rode  up  the  river-banks  under  the 
protection  of  Giovanni  and  a  few  chosen  horsemen. 
Sad  and  silent  was  the  little  journey.  The  road  in 
many  places  was  covered  with  water,  so  that  the 
party  were  obliged  to  take  higher  ground,  forcing 
their  way  through  thick  aloes,  while  every  moment 
of  delay  seemed  intolerable  to  those  whose  anxiety 
and  impatience  increased  the  more  they  reflected  on 
the  circumstances  in  which  Durazzo  was  placed. 
Giovanni  observed  with  pleasure  that  the  surface  of 
the  stream  was  covered  with  wrecks,  which  testified 
that  the  force  of  the  current  had  carried  away  the 
bridge,  nearly  opposite  the  monastery  ;  —  and  when 
they  reached  the  spot,  he  pointed  out  the  fact  to  his 
royal  mistress,  assuring  her  that  the  destruction  of 


320  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

the  bridge  must  have  prevented  all  passage  to  the 
road  that  led  up  among  the  mountains. 

"  He  can  have  sent  no  messengers  to  II  Muro  this 
night,"  said  the  page,  with  a  lightened  heart,  as  he 
assisted  the  trembling  lady  to  dismount  at  the  con 
vent  gate.  The  door  was  opened  before  they  had 
demanded  admittance ;  but  it  was  to  give  egress  to  a 
tall,  dark  figure,  which  started  back  at  first,  on  meet 
ing  them,  and  then,  with  muffled  face,  passed  hastily 
out,  and  disappeared  in  the  gloom.  Giovanni  looked 
suspiciously  and  anxiously  after  it,  and  then  urged 
the  admission  of  the  queen  to  her  husband.  It  was 
in  vain.  The  friars  obstinately  refused  to  disturb  the 
prince,  who  had  expressly  forbidden  all  intrusion 
upon  his  solitude  that  night  ;  and  the  vehemence  of 
the  youth,  the  pathetic  entreaties  of  Margaret,  were 
alike  wasted.  She  was,  however,  conducted  to  a 
cell,  and  there  left  alone,  by  a  monk  whose  charity 
and  hospitality  could  carry  him  no  farther.  Repose 
she  could  not ;  but  as  she  kneeled  at  her  devotions, 
awed  by  the  stillness  which  prevailed  ere  long 
through  the  cells  and  cloisters  of  the  whole  build 
ing,  it  seemed  to  her  that  something  stirred  near  her 
door.  A  soft  tap  was  presently  heard,  and  as  she 
opened  it,  an  aged  friar  presented  himself,  with  a 
light  in  his  hand.  "  Daughter,"  said  he,  "  I  was 
once  in  the  world,  till  its  sorrows  drove  me  hither. 
I  had  a  wife,  as  young,  beautiful,  and  loving  as 
thou  art ;  and  while  she  walked  with  me  on  earth, 
she  made  me  a  better  man.  For  the  sake  of  her 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  321 

memory,  dim  in  my  soul  for  many  years  till  this 
night,  I  will  lead  thee  to  thy  husband.  Use  thy  in 
fluence  well,  daughter,  —  for  therefore  did  God  be 
stow  it.  Beauty  is  a  holy  gift,  arid  the  woman  that 
views  it  aright  forgets  vanity,  and  trembles  at  her 
responsibility."  So  saying,  the  mild  old  man,  with 
a  noiseless  step,  moved  along  the  passage,  and  pla 
cing  the  lamp  on  the  floor  near  a  door  which  stood 
ajar,  he  cast  one  more  compassionate  glance  at  the 
fair  creature,  who  trembled  as  she  approached  a  hus 
band's  presence,  and  whispering,  "Linked  to  a  man 
of  blood,  —  I  pity  thee  !  "  he  withdrew. 

Margaret  paused  for  a  few  minutes  to  summon 
strength.  Not  a  sound  came  from  the  apartment ; 
a  light  glimmered  within,  but  it  seemed  as  if  the 
repose  of  death  must  be  there.  Arousing  all  her 
courage,  she  at  length  pushed  the  door  open  slowly, 
and  stood  on  the  threshold.  The  bare  walls  within 
were  feebly  lighted  by  a  candle,  waning  in  its  sock 
et.  As  its  blaze  rose  and  sunk,  uncertain  shadows 
flickered  about  the  room,  and  the  mournful  effigy  of 
a  suffering  Saviour,  which  hung  on  the  wall,  seemed 
its  only  occupant.  Margaret  took  up  her  own  lamp 
and  advanced  a  few  steps,  when  she  discovered  the 
prostrate  figure  of  her  husband,  stretched  on  a  rude 
pallet  of  straw  in  a  corner.  "  He  sleeps  !  "  thought 
she  joyfully  ;  "  could  he  sleep  if  he  purposed  such  a 
crime  ?  "  Her  reflections  were  broken  by  a  convul 
sive  shudder,  which  passed  over  the  limbs  of  Du- 
razzo,  and  a  stifled  groan.  "  It  is  troubled  sleep," 


322  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

she  thought  again  ;  and,  placing  her  lamp  on  the 
rough  table,  she  drew  near  him,  and  perceived  that 
his  attitude  was  not  that  of  slumber.  His  face  was 
buried  in  the  pillow;  his  hands  locked  over  his  head, 
as  if  he  had  thrown  himself  down  in  agony.  She 
stooped,  and  softly  whispering,  "  Charles  !  "  she 
touched  one  of  those  burning  hands  with  hers.  At 
that  sound  and  touch,  he  sprang  up  on  his  knees,  and 
glared  on  her  with  a  livid  face,  and  eyes  that  seemed 
starting  from  their  sockets.  Appalled  and  speech 
less,  she  stood  trembling,  till,  in  a  hoarse  and  almost 
inarticulate  voice,  he  demanded,  —  "  Margaret  !  is  it 
Margaret  ?  " 

"  Surely,  —  it  is  your  wife,"  replied  she  ;  "  none 
other  would  dare  come  to  your  side  unbidden.  But, 
O  Charles  !  is  it  thus  you  welcome  me  ?  Do  you 
not  know  me,  beloved  ?  " 

His  eyes  wandered  about  so  wildly,  that  for  an  in 
stant  a  surmise  of  his  insanity  crossed  her  mind,  and 
she  retreated  a  few  paces,  when  he  leaped  up,  and, 
seating  himself  on  the  side  of  the  couch,  placed  his 
hands  before  his  face,  as  if  striving  to  recollect  him 
self.  "  Margaret  here  !  "  said  he  again ;  —  "  and  how 
is  that  ?  Whence  came  you  ?  " 

"  From  Capanna,"  replied  the  princess  ;  "  have  I 
done  wrong  to  seek  my  lord  uncalled?  O  my  be 
loved  husband  !  we  meet  not  as  we  once  did  !  " 

"  And  I  am  not  what  I  was  !  "  cried  Charles,  in  a 
softened  tone  ;  and  as  he  looked  on  her  steadfastly  a 
few  moments,  the  wildness  passed  from  his  eyes  ; 


JOANNA    OF   NAPLES.  323 

they  even  filled  with  tears.  "  Beautiful,  —  though 
pale  !  — sweet  arid  gentle  as  ever !  "  said  he.  "  Thou 
hast  been  ill,  my  wife  ;  —  and  our  separation  has  been 
long !  "  He  held  out  both  his  hands  to  her,  and  she 
threw  herself  on  his  neck,  weeping  without  restraint. 
Again  and  again  she  attempted  to  speak,  but  a  fresh 
burst  of  emotion  checked  her  words  ;  and  Charles 
held  her  in  silence,  till  the  violence  of  her  feelings 
was  expended.  When  she  became  calm,  she  rose 
and  looked  in  his  face,  smiling  through  her  tears 
with  the  same  innocent  expression  he  remembered 
so  well  in  the  April  days  of  her  childhood  ;  but  a 
change  had  passed  over  his  countenance  ;  —  the  de 
mon  was  there  again.  He  almost  threw  her  from 
him  as  he  cried,  —  "  Smile  not  on  me,  Margaret ! 
What  have  I  to  do  with  angels  ?  Go,  go  !  —  leave 
me  !  It  is  my  pleasure  to  be  alone.  Gave  I  not  or 
ders  "  Margaret  clasped  her  hands  supplicat- 

ingly,  and  again  approached  him  ;  but  in  a  voice  of 
thunder  he  repeated,  "  Leave  me,  I  say !  What 
brought  you  hither  ?  Who  gave  you  entrance  ?  " 

"  Dearest,  —  dearest !  "  said  Margaret,  still  cour 
ageously  drawing  closer  to  the  frantic  man,  though 
he  lifted  his  clenched  hand,  as  if  actually  about  to 
deal  a  furious  blow  on  her  temples.  Such  daring,  in 
a  creature  so  soft  and  naturally  so  timid,  smote  him 
with  a  nameless  sensation,  that  overpowered  all  wild 
passions,  and  he  remained  immovable,  till  she  imper 
ceptibly  sunk  at  his  feet,  threw  back  the  dishevelled 
locks  from  her  face,  embraced  his  knees,  and  re- 


324  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

mained  with  upturned  countenance,  mutely  implor 
ing  forbearance,  such  tenderness  beaming  from  her 
eyes,  that  a  heart  of  stone  must  have  been  melted. 

His  arm  dropped.  "  Margaret  !  Margaret !  "  said 
he,  "  thou  hast  grown  bold  !  Whence  comes  this 
new-found  courage  ?  " 

"  Do  I  not  love  thee,  Charles  ?  " 

"  Even  yet,  —  my  wife  ?  " 

"  Till  death." 

"  No,  —  no,  —  no  !  Deceive  not  thyself  ;  thou 
canst  not  love  me  always.  Were  I  unworthy  of 
thee,  couldst  thou  love  me  ?  " 

"  Thou  shalt  not  be.  It  was  to  ward  off  evil,  be 
loved,  that  I  came  hither.  Thou  hast  erred  much, 
and  they  told  me  that  temptation  had  again  beset 
thee  ;  therefore  nothing  had  power  to  daunt  me,  — 
to  keep  me  from  thy  side.  O  Charles  !  the  deeds 
thou  hast  done  since  we  parted  are  dreadful  ;  but  it 
is  not  too  late  to  retrieve^  all,  —  not  too  late  to  repair 
the  wrong,  and  be  again  happy." 

"  Woman  !  woman  !  "  cried  Durazzo,  fiercely  ; 
"  thou  knowest  not  what  thou  sayest !  For  what 
purpose  earnest  thou  hither,  demon  in  a  seraph's 
shape  ?  To  mock  me  ?  —  to  hiss  at  me  ?  What 
brought  thee  hither,  I  say  ?  "  He  gazed  on  her 
with  fixed  eyeballs,  and,  from  the  darkened  corner  in 
which  he  stood,  they  glared  like  a  tiger's ;  but  he  «o 
longer  beheld  a  quaking  suppliant,  ready  to  sink  at 
his  feet. 

Some  new  feeling  had  rushed  over  the  mind  of 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  325 

Margaret,  and  though  she  became  pale  as  marble, 
she  stirred  not,  she  trembled  not,  but  met  his  maniac 
stare  with  an  expression  of  countenance  he  had  nev 
er  seen  her  wear  before.  "  Charles,"  said  she,  "  I 
came  hither  to  save  thee  from  thyself.  Why  do  I 
find  thee  mad,  —  mad,  my  husband  ?  What  crime 
hast  thou  been  ruminating  upon,  by  the  midnight 
lamp,  till  thy  noble  reason  is  almost  unseated?  Think 
of  it  no  more  ;  —  think  only  of  me.  Rejoice  that  I 
have  come  between  thee  and  thy  meditated  crime." 

Charles  gnashed  his  teeth,  and  rapidly  muttered  in 
a  low  tone,  —  "  Art  thou  not  come  too  late  ?  " 

The  words  had  hardly  struck  her  ear,  when  Mar 
garet  disengaged  herself  from  him,  sprang  to  the  cen 
tre  of  the  room,  and  turning  upon  him  a  face  of  hor 
ror,  asked  in  a  whisper,  fearfully  distinct,  "Am  I  the 
wife  of  a  murderer?  Stand  back  till  I  am  answered. 
Heaven  breaks  our  vows  if  it  be  so." 

"  Then  they  are  cancelled  !  "  was  the  half-suffo 
cated  answer  of  Durazzo. 

Margaret  uttered  not  a  word  ;  the  veins  in  her 
forehead  swelled,  and  she  gasped  for  breath. 

Charles,  suddenly  rousing  himself  from  his  stupor, 
exclaimed,  —  "  What  have  I  said  ?  Margaret  !  — 
Margaret !  believe  it  not.  Did  I  say  I  had  murdered 
her  ?  No,  —  no,  —  she  lives  yet,  —  it  may  be.  / 
have  struck  no  blow." 

"  Durazzo  !  "  said  the  princess,  "  trifle  not  with 
me.  What  hast  thou  done  ?  It  is  remorse  that  al 
most  maddens  thee,  and  think  not  to  keep  thy  fatal 

28 


326  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

secret  from  a  wife.  The  guilt  undivulged  for  years 
will  escape  thy  lips,  and  cast  thee  from  me  at  some 
future  hour  of  agony ;  for  never,  never,  will  I 

knowingly  share  the  fortunes  of O  Charles! 

I  cannot  utter  that  fearful  word  again.  Tell  me  ; 
what  hast  thou  done  ?  " 

Still  Durazzo  sat  in  sullen  silence.  The  sugges 
tions  of  the  page  flashed  on  her  mind.  "  Hast  thou 
sent  orders  to  yonder  mountain  to-night  ?  "  she  asked. 
The  look  with  which  he  answered  her  told  enough  ; 
and  clasping  her  hands,  she  cried  in  a  tone  of  joy,  — 
"  Heaven  be  praised  !  I  have  not  come  too  late.  No 
message  can  have  passed  that  swollen  stream,  and  O 
my  husband  !  thou  art  saved  from  anguish  unuttera 
ble  and  eternal." 

"  What  mean  you  ?  "  exclaimed  the  bewildered 
Durazzo. 

"  That  God  hath  interposed,  —  that  the  wild  work 
of  the  elements  hath  been  merciful  to  thee.  The 
bridges  have  been  swept  away  ;  and  if  thou  hast  in 
deed  been  in  the  power  of  evil  spirits,  and  hast  sent 
bloody  commands  to  II  Muro,  they  cannot  have  been 
transmitted." 

Charles  rose,  but  stood  perplexed,  his  faculties 
confused  by  a  revulsion  of  feeling  so  unexpected. 
"  Art  thou  sure  ?  "  asked  he,  at  last,  abruptly. 

"  I  saw  the  wrecks  with  my  own  eyes,"  replied 
Margaret ;  "  I  saw  the  stream  unspanned  by  the 
handiwork  of  man,  as  it  hurried  foaming  through 
the  plain  ;  and  your  own  page  told  me,  no  man 
could  have  crossed  it  this  night." 


JOANNA    OF   NAPLES.  327 

"  But  he  will  seek  a  passage  higher  up,"  said  Du- 
razzo. 

"  Then  fly  !  — fly  at  once  !  "  exclaimed  the  prin 
cess  ;  "  whoever  may  be  your  bloody  courier,  he  must 
have  met  with  embarrassment  and  delay ;  he  may  be 
overtaken.  O  Charles  !  I  found  thee  in  purgatory, 
but  if  there  is  paradise  on  earth,  thou  shall  know 
it  to-morrow  night,  when  looking  on  thy  bloodless 
hands.  She  who  loved  us  so  fondly  will  forgive 
thee,  —  O,  speed  !  speed  !  Why  dost  thou  delay  ?  " 

"  Down,  busy  fiend  !  "  muttered  Durazzo  to  him 
self,  still  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  floor,  a  dark  and  ter 
rible  irresolution  sitting  on  his  brow. 

"  Thou  dost  not  hesitate  ?  "  cried  Margaret,  aston 
ished  and  terrified.  "  Then  Satan  is  indeed  here, 
though  mine  eyes  behold  him  not.  Good  saints  and 
angels,  defend  us  !  " 

"  Margaret,"  said  Durazzo,  "  her  life  is  my  earthly 
ruin,  —  my  death  !  " 

"  Believe  it  not !  "  cried  Margaret,  something  of 
Joanna's  noble  spirit  flashing  from  her  beautiful  face  ; 
"it  is  the  foul  fiend  that  whispers  it.  And  what  if  it 
be  so  ?  Come  death  ;  come  any  thing  but  guilt  and 
eternal  remorse  !  Husband  of  my  youth,  rather 
would  I  hang  over  thy  bloody  corse,  and  know  that 
those  beloved  eyes  would  never  look  on  me  again, 
so  that  thou  diedst  innocent  of  this  foul,  irreparable 
crime  !  Then  the  memory  of  thy  virtues  would 
minister  comfort.  Let  me  rather  wear  the  widow's 
garment  of  mourning  than  live  to  shudder  at  thy 
approach  !  " 


328  JOANNA   OP  NAPLES. 

"  Callest  thou  this  the  language  of  love  ?  "  said 
Charles,  bitterly. 

"  Ay,  of  love  the  purest,  the  most  exalted  ;  — love 
that  adores,  hopes,  pleads  to  the  last,  contend 
ing  and  struggling  with  sin  itself  for  thy  salva 
tion  ;  — love  that  is  quicksighted  to  thy  true  digni 
ty  and  happiness  ;  —  love  that  foresees  thy  coming 
agony  of  remorse,  and  trembles  even  at  the  earthly 
retribution  that  will  overtake  thee  ;  — love  that  clings 
to  thee  on  the  very  brink  of  a  precipice  !  When  thou 
hast  fallen,  —  then,  indeed,  virtuous  love  must  for 
sake  thee,  a  ruined  and  degraded  wretch.  Start  not ! 
Since  all  higher  appeals  fail,  hear  this  !  Wife  as  I 
am,  —  fond  and  faithful  wife,  —  mother  of  thy  chil 
dren,  —  Durazzo,  I  declare  to  thee,  that,  polluted 
with  the  murder  of  a  benefactress,  the  cold-blooded, 
ungrateful,  deliberate  assassin  shall  forfeit  all  rev 
erence,  all  homage,  all  affection,  from  the  woman 
that  once  adored  him  !  He  shall  search  for  her'  in 
bower  and  hall,  and  find  her  not,  to  share  the  fruits 
of  his  sin  and  infamy.  No,  Charles  ;  thou  mayst 
revel  amid  empty  pomps  if  thou  canst,  but  thy  bro 
ken-hearted  wife  shall  kneel  at  the  foot  of  the  cross, 
in  some  lonely  convent,  forsaking  thee  and  the 
world,  to  drag  out  her  days  in  penitence  for  anoth 
er's  crime.  O  noble  and  wretched  Joanna,  is  this  thy 
reward  ?  Is  it  by  a  cruel,  violent  death  thou  must 
pass  from  a  life  of  many  sorrows?  Charles,  couldst 
thou  have  the  heart  to  look  on  her  dying  agonies  ? 
Couldst  thou  behold  those  eyes  closed  for  ever,  that 


JOANNA    OF   NAPLES.  329 

beamed  so  kindly  on  thee,  knowing  thyself  her  mur 
derer,  and  ever  hope  for  peace  again  ?  Picture  her 
lying,  this  moment,  cold  and  lifeless  at  thy  feet ;  and 
then  remember  the  hour  of  thine  own  dissolution, 
fearful  and  frantic  with  the  pangs  of  remorse, — per 
haps  bloody,  unconsoled,  deserted  by  man,  frowned 
upon  by  the  unutterable  wrath  of  God  !  Thou  must 
die,  Charles  ;  thou  knowest  not  when ;  but  be  it  to 
morrow,  or  in  a  decrepit  old  age,  the  memory  of  this 
very  moment,  fleeting  so  swiftly  by  us,  will  be  with 
thee  then.  It  speeds,  —  it  speeds  ;  —  it  will  be  gone, 
never  to  return  !  O,  seize  it,  my  wretched  husband ! 
It  hurries  thee  to  perdition,  and  I  cling  to  thee  in 
vain.  O  Joanna !  more  than  mother !  when  his 
children-  ask  me  of  thy  death,  what  shall  I  say  ? 
Have  mercy  on  us  all,  Charles  !  Cover  not  thy  in 
nocent  offspring  with  ignominy.  Leave  me  not  to 
shudder,  when  I  speak  to  them  of  their  father ! 
Hath  any  man  a  right  to  bequeathe  shame  to  his  chil 
dren  ?  Have  mercy  on  thyself !  it  is  for  thine  own 
soul,  for  thy  salvation,  I  plead  ;  and  the  invisible 
God,  who  hears  and  sees  us  this  moment,  will  re 
member  these  tears  against  thee  !  Yet  I  would  die 
any  death,  to  save  thee  from  this  complicated  guilt ! 
Thou  yieldest !  I  see  it  in  thy  softening  aspect  ;  — 
the  cloud  passes  from  thy  brow  ;  —  thy  lip  quivers, 
—  thou  art  saved !  Holy  Mother,  be  praised !  Guar 
dian  angels  are  about  us.  and  the  discomfited  fiend 
retires  !  " 


330  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

"  Thou,  —  thou  art,  indeed,  my  guardian  angel, 
glorious,  inspired  being  !  "  cried  Charles. 

"  Give  not  me  the  honor,"  said  Margaret  ;  "  but 
haste,  —  fly,  —  trust  no  messenger,  —  go  in  person. 
If  I  am  worthy  to  be  her  sister's  child,  let  me  look 
once  more  on  that  august  countenance.  Come  to 
me  with  forgiveness  from  her  living  lips  upon  thy 
brow,  or  never  approach  me  again.  Nay  ;  bring  her 
from  the  prison  that  dishonors  thee  ;  or  the  wife 
of  Durazzo  becomes  the  bride  of  Heaven  !  —  And 
thou,  image  of  a  suffering  Saviour,  listen  to  my 
vows  !  " 

As  she  spoke,  she  threw  herself  exhausted  before 
the  crucifix.  Durazzo  cast  but  a  single  glance  on 
her  kneeling  figure,  on  a  face  pale  with  the  anguish 
of  the  scene  and  streaming  with  tears,  and  on  eyes 
uplifted  in  fervent  faith.  He  rushed  from  the  cell, 
and  Margaret  heard  his  rapid  steps  as  he  fled  along 
the  cloister,  —  the  eager  voice  of  Giovanni,  —  the 
loud  demand  for  his  war-horse.  Then  came  the  bus 
tle  among  the  soldiers, — the  trampling  of  the  char 
ger,  —  the  furious  gallop,  dying  away  in  the  distance, 
—  the  gradual  subsiding  of  the  confusion  within 
doors,  and  all  was  again  still.  It  seemed  like  a 
dream.  She  prostrated  herself  in  prayer,  till  nearly 
an  hour  had  passed  away  ;  then  she  arose  and  re 
turned  to  the  cell  the  friars  had  appropriated  to  her, 
and  at  its  door  found  the  page,  his  countenance 
beaming  with  joy.  "  All  will  go  well,"  cried  he. 
"  The  priest  had  but  left  my  master  when  we  ar- 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  331 

rived.  The  caitiff  took  with  him  four  Hungarians  ; 
he  durst  not  ask  such  service  of  Neapolitans  ;  and 
they  rode  up  and  down  the  river-bank,  vainly  seek 
ing  boat,  bridge,  or  fording-place.  Then  they  as 
cended  the  pass  to  a  narrowing  of  the  stream,  and 
there  cut  down  trees  and  threw  them  across.  I 
tracked  them  so  far  and  returned,  told  the  king  as 
he  came  forth,  and  he  galloped  thither  at  once.  He 
will  overtake  them,  lady  ;  they  must  delay  to  fell 
trees  from  time  to  time,  as  they  pass  the  mountain 
torrents,  and  he  will  press  unchecked  over  their 
bridges  ;  —  all  is  safe !  By  the  gray  light  of  dawn,  I 
saw  his  white  charger  but  now,  as  he  passed  the  face 
of  the  Black  Rock,  nearly  half  way  up  the  moun 
tain  side;  he  cannot  be  far  behind  them."  Margaret 
clasped  her  hands  thankfully,  and  retired  to  bear  her 
suspense,  where  solicitude  of  the  most  intense  nature 
is  always  best  endured,  —  in  solitude. 

Giovanni  was  right.  The  monk  had  been  delayed, 
finding  no  passage  across  the  swollen  stream  ;  but, 
bent  on  fulfilling  his  atrocious  mission,  he  had  gone 
higher  up  the  river,  where  it  issued  from  the  gorge 
between  two  wooded  cliffs,  that  nearly  met  over  its 
bed  ;  and  here  a  few  trees,  hastily  felled,  had  allowed 
him  and  his  ruffians  to  reach  the  opposite  bank,  far 
above  which  rose  the  solitary  fortress.  Charles,  act 
ing  once  more  under  the  better  impulses  of  his  na 
ture,  pursued  his  own  myrmidons  furiously  ;  yet  so 
long  had  been  the  interval  between  their  departure 
from  the  monastery  and  his  own,  that  his  heart  al- 


332  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

most  sickened  with  despair,  as  he  followed  their 
tracks  up  the  steep  ascent,  and  dashed  over  the  rude 
bridges  they  had  constructed.  Higher,  they  seemed 
to  have  met  with  less  to  delay  them ;  the  old  bridges 
had  not  been  carried  away  by  the  upper  brooks ;  and 
the  perspiration  stood  on  his  brow,  as  he  emerged 
from  the  forest-trees  which  encircled  the  lower  re 
gion  of  the  mountain.  Raising  himself  on  his  stir 
rups,  he  looked  over  the  stunted  firs  and  gray  rocks  ; 
—  not  a  figure  was  to  be  seen  moving  up  the  melan 
choly  waste.  The  mists  of  the  valley  had  not  begun 
to  ascend,  and  the  air  around  was  so  pure,  so  full  of 
light  from  the  yet  unrisen  sun,  that  he  seemed  to 
have  reached  the  very  birthplace  of  the  morning. 
No  matin-song  of  birds,  as  on  lower  earth,  welcomed 
the  approaching  god  of  day  •  nor  did  the  wild  scream 
of  the  still  slumbering  eagle  break  the  silence  of 
those  awful  solitudes,  —  a  silence  more  dreadful  than 
the  voice  of  battle  to  the  conscience-smitten  man, 
who  felt  as  if  his  guilty  soul  were  here  brought  alone 
face  to  face  with  his  Maker.  Onward  he  pressed, 
and  the  noble  animal  he  rode  strained  every  nerve 
against  the  steep  ascent,  now  striking  fire  with  his 
hoofs,  as  he  clattered  over  the  rocks,  now  bounding 
along  the  boggy  interval,  where  the  short  Alpine 
grasses  and  wild-flowers  yielded  to  his  hurricane  pas 
sage.  By  snatches  the  pleadings  of  his  weeping 
Margaret  haunted  the  fierce  rider,  and  the  words, 
"  Picture  her  lying  cold  and  lifeless  at  thy  feet !  " 
sounded  ever  and  anon  in  his  ear,  while,  at  each  fresh 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  833 

pang  of  remorse  and  terror,  he  goaded  the  snow- 
white  flanks  of  his  charger  till  the  blood  streamed 
from  them.  Occasionally  the  towers  of  II  Muro 
came  in  sight,  clearly  defined  against  the  morning 
sky  ;  but  in  vain  he  eyed  them  ;  they  told  no  tales 
of  the  work  doing  within  their  dark  circuit.  He 
knew  not  if  the  murderer's  step  had  yet  touched 
their  threshold,  or  whether  their  noble  inmate  still 
slumbered  peacefully,  unconscious  that  the  wing  of 
the  destroying  angel  waved  so  near  her. 

He  reached  at  last  a  spot  where  the  road  narrowed 
almost  to  a  footpath,  made  a  sharp  turn  round  a  cliff, 
which  rose  high  on  his  right,  while  on  the  left  a 
steep  slope  led  down  to  the  brink  of  a  fearful  chasm. 
Heedless  of  the  dizzying  abyss,  as  he  was  about  to 
wheel  rapidly  round  the  projecting  angle  of  the  rock, 
he  almost  came  violently  in  contact  with  the  person 
of  a  man  descending  on  foot.  It  was  the  monk  ;  his 
cowl  thrown  back, — his  face  more  ghastly  than  usu 
al,  —  his  eyes  wild.  Both  for  a  moment  gazed  on 
each  other  as  if  thunderstruck,  and  then  Durazzo, 
though  his  tongue  seemed  to  cleave  to  the  roof  of 
his  mouth,  demanded  abruptly,  "  Is  it  over  ?  " 

"  No  ;  she  lives,"  replied  the  monk,  attempting  to 
put  his  hand  on  Charles's  bridle,  —  "  but " 

Durazzo  stayed  not  to  hear  the  sentence  complet 
ed  ;  again  he  plunged  the  spurs  into  his  nearly  spent 
charger,  and  rushing  violently  between  Father  Mat- 
teo  and  the  rocky  wall  on  his  right,  turned  the  cor 
ner  and  continued  his  upward  course.  He  heard 


334  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

not  the  cry  that  followed  him;  he  knew  not  that  the 
shock  had  thrown  the  miserable  monk  upon  the 
slope,  on  whose  verge  he  was  standing.  It  was 
smooth  and  slaty  ;  its  inclination  almost  perpendic 
ular  ;  not  a  shrub,  not  a  blade  of  grass,  grew  upon  it, 
and  as  the  wretch  alternately  slid  and  rolled  down, 
in  vain  he  clutched  the  pebbles  that  filled  his  grasp, 
without  staying  his  destruction.  He  was  at  the 
brink  of  the  precipice,  — he  was  gone  !  Yet  he  had 
time  to  know  and  feel  the  complete  horror  of  his  sit 
uation.  Below  the  verge  of  the  cliff,  a  few  young 
trees  sprang  from  the  interstices  of  the  rocks,  on  one 
of  which  the  falling  monk  seized  with  a  frantic 
grasp.  One  look  upward  at  the  blue  sky  with  fleecy 
clouds  sailing  across,  —  a  single  shuddering  glance 
downward.  The  roar  of  the  cataract  came  up  dis 
tinctly  ;  he  saw  the  white  foam  at  the  bottom  of  the 
gloom ;  he  felt  the  shrub  to  which  he  clung  bend 
ing,  —  giving  way,  —  and  heard  the  earth  and  stones 
around  rattling  and  thundering  down  the  face  of  the 
precipice.  For  an  instant,  like  flashes  of  lightning, 
the  recollection  of  crime  and  terrors  of  judgment 
darted  through  his  soul ;  in  another  moment  all  was 
over.  In  the  midst  of  health  and  strength,  in  the 
full  possession  of  his  faculties,  arid  conscious  of  his 
situation,  the  bad  man  went  to  his  account.  When 
the  heats  of  summer  dried  up  the  mountain  torrent, 
the  wolf  and  the  bird  of  prey  alone  knew  where  his 
bones  lay,  amid  the  rocks  of  a  lonely  defile,  untrod 
den  by  the  foot  of  man  ;  and  a  rumor  went  abroad 


JOAXXA   OF   NAPLES.  385 

that  the  ambitious  Dominican,  the  proud  confessor 
of  Durazzo,  who  had  disappeared  so  mysteriously 
from  amidst  men,  had  perished  by  the  hands  of  the 
lawless  banditti  of  the  Apennines. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

REFRESHING  had  been  the  slumbers  of  Joanna  on 
the  night  preceding  the  twenty-eighth  of  May  ;  and 
pleasant  dreams  had  hovered  about  her  pillow,  bring 
ing  round  her  the  scenes  and  friends  of  her  youth. 
The  beautiful  face  of  Philippa,  the  Catanese,  whom 
years  before  she  had  fondly  cherished  with  the  friend 
ship  of  unsuspecting  girlhood,  —  whom  she  had  seen 
torn  from  her  arms  to  perish  in  tortures,  —  had  smiled 
upon  her  again  and  again,  amid  her  visions  ;  and  as 
she  awoke  at  daybreak,  the  lovely  phantom  seemed 
to  melt  gradually  away,  still  smiling  and  beckoning 
her  ;  while,  above  and  in  the  background,  the  yet 
more  celestial  countenance  of  the  Holy  Mother  looked 
down  on  the  dreamer  with  an  aspect  that  breathed 
peace  and  consolation. 

She  rose,  not  to  mourn  over  the  vanishing  illusion 
and  at  the  harsh  realities  about  her,  but  to  kneel  in 
gratitude,  because  happy  dreams  were  not  shut  out 
from  the  prisoner,  —  because  unseen  protection  had 
guarded  her  slumbers  and  cheered  her  drooping  spirit. 


336  JOANNA    OF   NAPLES. 

Her  late  indisposition  had  passed  away,  and  an  ex 
hilarating  perception  of  returning  strength  —  a  lux 
ury  unknown  to  one  who  never  experiences  sickness 
—  ran  through  her  veins.  She  stood  at  her  favorite 
window,  which  looked  eastward  into  the  very  heart 
of  the  mountain  scenery,  and  as  the  dappled  skies 
gradually  brightened  with  crimson  and  gold,  a  thought 
of  the  vain  earthly  pomps  in  which  she  had  once 
taken  such  delight  stole  into  her  mind.  "  Idle  and 
frivolous  were  ye  all !  "  she  said  to  herself,  "  and  mer 
cifully  was  I  drawn  away  from  snares  and  tempta 
tions.  When  the  work  is  done,  —  when  the  spirit  is 
purified,  —  then  will  it  be  called  away.  But  as  yet, 
earth  holds  something  to  which  it  cleaves.  Could  I 
but  linger  to  speak  one  cheering  word  to  Otho,  —  to 
embrace  my  beloved  Margaret  once  more,  —  to  kiss 
the  fair  brows  of  her  children  !  Could  I  but  see  my 
poor,  deluded,  miserable  Charles,  once  more  touched 
with  penitence,  his  hard  heart  softened  like  the  rock 
in  the  wilderness,  and  gushing  again  with  pure  affec 
tions  !  Cannot  the  God,  who  smote  the  firm  granite 
with  the  prophet's  rod,  work  a  moral  miracle  ?  — Why 
am  I  haunted  with  such  fond  fancies  !  Let  me  not 
become  a  dreamer,  when  the  heavens  are  flooded 
with  the  broad  light  of  day.  Enough  for  visions  in 
the  dead  hour  of  night,  when  the  eye  sees  not,  when 
the  hand  is  weary,  and  the  senses  crave  their  neces 
sary  repose." 

So  'saying,  she  shook  off  the  inclination  for  melan 
choly  reverie  which  was  stealing  over  her,  and  with 


JOANNA   OF  NAPLES.  337 

one  admiring  glance  at  the  mists  which  had  covered 
the  valley  like  a  sea,  and  were  now  climbing  up 
wards  in  silver  wreaths,  she  turned  energetically  to 
her  morning  tasks.  A  single  volume  in  Latin,  the 
production  of  a  venerable  father  of  an  earlier  centu 
ry,  had  lately  found  its  way  to  her  aerial  prison ;  and 
she  often  amused  herself  with  committing  passages 
to  memory,  or  reading  it  aloud  in  choice  Italian,  for 
not  in  vain  had  she  been  educated  in  the  court  of 
her  grandfather,  Robert  of  Sicily,  the  patron  of  re 
viving  literature.  Thus  employed  she  sat ;  and  as 
she  read,  she  slowly  unbound  the  thick  tresses  which 
were  now  bearing  testimony  that  sickness  and  trou 
ble  silver  the  dark  locks  of  woman  no  less  than  time. 
The  last  few  months  had  changed  them  much  ;  but 
it  was  with  a  faint  smile,  not  with  a  sigh,  that  the 
most  beautiful  female  of  her  day  looked  on  the  token 
of  her  fading  loveliness.  Like  all  strong-minded 
women,  she  had  never  prized  the  flattery  that  chose 
her  person  for  its  theme  ;  but  had  sought  from  the 
wise  and  good  that  approbation  which  age  could  not 
forfeit ;  and  she  neither  mourned  what  was  lost,  nor 
triumphed  in  the  consciousness  that  her  majestic 
beauty  might  even  yet  have  dazzled  a  courtier's  eye. 
In  the  midst  of  these  quiet  occupations,  she  heard 
the  immense  door  unbarred,  at  the  end  of  a  Ions 

'  O 

vaulted  passage,  leading  to  her  apartment.  It  was 
the  customary  sound  at  this  period  of  the  day  ;  but 
there  was  an  unusual  violence  in  the  haste  with 
which  it  was  thrown  back,  and  the  footsteps  ap- 

29 


338  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

preaching  along  the  stone  floor  were  heavy  and 
many.  "  Another  embassy  from  Charles  !  "  she  said 
to  herself;  "  it  is  an  uncommon  and  unseemly  hour. 
They  must  bring  me  tidings  of  pressing  importance. 
O,  could  it  be  that  among  the  mysterious  vicissi 
tudes  of  life,  Anjou  hath  terminated  my  captivity, 
and  my  freedom  were  at  hand  !  Be  quiet,  throbbing 
heart !  " 

Striving  to  conquer  the  emotion  with  which  this 
thought  —  so  natural,  yet  so  wild  —  tinged  her  cheek 
and  brightened  her  eye,  she  surveyed  the  opening 
door  of  her  apartment.  Those  without  held  a  whis 
pering  consultation ;  it  seemed  as  if  they  hesitated  on 
the  very  threshold  ;  but  her  suspense  was  not  long. 
Four  strangers  entered,  one  by  one,  —  silently  ar 
ranging  themselves  along  the  wall.  Theirs  were  not 
the  well-known  faces  of  Neapolitan  barons  ;  their 
limbs  were  clad  neither  in  the  glittering  armour  nor 
the  silken  tunic  of  the  nobles  ;  she  missed  even  the 
familiar,  dark  eye  of  Italy,  which  might  have  spoken 
some  encouragement.  Foreigners,  —  Hungarians,  — 
hired  ruffians !  she  read  them  and  their  fatal  business 
at  a  glance,  and  a  sudden  sickness  of  the  heart  for  an 
instant  came  upon  her.  It  was  not  in  human  nature 
to  look,  without  apprehension,  on  death,  approaching 
so  unexpectedly,  with  violence,  perhaps  with  torture. 
But  though  she  involuntarily  pressed  her  hands  to 
gether,  clasping  the  crucifix  which  always  hung  at 
her  girdle,  she  neither  started  up  with  undignified 
terror,  nor  uttered  a  single  ejaculation.  Three  of 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  339 

the  men  gazed  on  her  with  cold  and  curious  eyes  ; 
she  saw  no  token  of  sensibility  or  humanity  there, 
to  which  she  might  appeal ;  they  were  of  the  lowest 
rank  of  society,  utterly  abandoned  and  inured  to 
crime.  Their  leader  alone  appeared  embarrassed  and 
unable  to  meet  the  eye  of  Joanna,  as  if  capable  of 
appreciating  the  magnanimity  with  which  she  seemed 
prepared  to  encounter  her  fate.  After  waiting  in  vain 
for  him  to  disclose  his  errand,  she  herself  broke  si 
lence  at  last.  "  You  are  a  stranger  to  me,  —  a  for 
eigner.  Do  you  speak  Italian  ?  " 

The  man  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

"  Then  if  your  business  be  with  Joanna  of  Naples, 
she  is  before  you  ;  unfold  it." 

He  still  hesitated,  —  looked  at  the  door,  —  at  his 
followers,  — and  began.  "  Lady,  I  am  not  wont  to 
shrink  from  that  which  I  undertake  ;  but  the  gold 
that  has  bought  my  services  this  day  will  be  hardly 
earned.  I  know  not  how  to  look  upon  you,  and  re 
member  the  reward  that  is  to  banish  my  poverty." 

"  I  understand  you  ;  my  hour  is  come.  Tell  me 
only  by  whose  order  a  life  of  sorrows  is  to  close  in 
blood."  The  Hungarian  shook  his  head.  "  You  are 
forbidden  to  speak  a  name  so  high  ?  It  is  an  idle 
mystery.  My  prison  walls  are  protection  to  me 
against  all  save  one,  and  his  authority  alone  can  ad 
mit  the  hired  assassin  to  my  guarded  cell.  But  it  is 
best ;  —  the  sound  of  that  name,  as  the  sanction  of 
such  a  deed  !  —  let  me  not  hear  it.  Would  I  had 
died  peacefully  on  yonder  couch,  and  spared  his  soul 


340  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

this  last  leap  into  sin  and  misery  !  I  could  not  have 
believed,  —  could  not  have  dreamed  it  !  I  wilj.  not 
think  of  it, — for  the  departing  spirit  should  be  calm. 
Stranger,  by  what  mode  is  it  your  will  that  I  should 
pass  from  this  troubled  scene  of  shadows  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  pleasure  of  those  who  sent  us  hither, 
that  no  mark  of  violence  remain  on  your  person." 

"  I  thank  them  for  the  unintentional  grace  ;  so 
much  of  the  woman  and  the  queen  remains  un- 
crushed,  that  I  should  have  shrunk  from  the  fierce 
handling  of  your  ruffians.  Alas !  — idle  thought !  — 
say  on." 

"  We  are  ordered  to  allow  your  Majesty  a  choice 
between  three  deaths,"  said  the  man,  awed  into  the 
use  of  a  term,  which  had  but  seldom  reached  her  ear 
of  late. 

She  repeated  the  word  sadly  after  him.  "  There 
is  but  One  Majesty,  and  no  mortal  eye  hath  seen 
that.  I  rejoice  that  I  have  never  forgotten  it.  Go 
on."  The  captain  pointed  without  speaking  to  the 
pillows  of  her  couch.  She  understood  him,  and 
shuddered.  "  Suffocation  !  —  that  is  indeed  a  death 
of  struggles !  Four  men  to  stifle  down  the  breath  of 
one  helpless  woman  !  O,  no!  —  no  !  " 

"  The  castle  well  is  deep,  —  it  is  full  of  water,  — 
but  that,  too,  is  a  fearful  death,"  said  the  same  man, 
his  aspect  softening  more  and  more. 

Joanna  paused  ;  —  for  a  moment  the  innate  love  of 
life  stirred  in  her  heart.  "  If  yonder  misguided  prince 
should  repent !  "  said  she  ;  "  he  was  ever  the  victim 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  341 

of  impulse.  He  is  violent  as  the  winds,  and  as  un 
steady.  Two  hours'  delay  may  bring  countermand 
ing  orders." 

The  man  shook  his  head  impatiently,  and  darted 
an  anxious  glance  at  the  door,  from  whence  a  harsh 
voice  was  heard  exclaiming,  —  "  Stilicho,  —  speed  ! 
speed  !  I  charge  you."  The  relenting  murderer  re 
membered  his  price,  and  hastening  to  the  door  re 
ceived  from  the  hands  of  some  unseen  person  a  silver 
cup,  which  he  presented  to  the  queen,  saying  in  a 
low  voice,  —  "  Let  this  be  your  choice,  —  it  is  sure, 
but  quiet." 

"  What !  by  my  own  hand  ?  " 

"  If  you  reject  the  cup,  remember  how  rudely 
the  deed  must  be  done.  There  is  no  escape,  —  no 
delay  possible.  Spare  me,  noble  lady,  the  most  hate 
ful  part  of  my  vile  office.  I  was  not  always  what 
I  now  am  ;  and  my  heart  once  more  beats  with  the 
feelings  of  a  man.  I  conjure  you,  force  me  not  to 
order  those  degraded  wretches  to  lay  hands  upon 
you." 

"  He  has  chosen  his  instrument  ill,"  said  Joanna, 
searching  the  countenance  of  the  Hungarian  with  a 
lingering  hope. 

"  No,"  replied  he,  averting  his  face  ;  "  I  cannot 
save  you,  —  and  time  presses." 

Joanna's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  took  the  cup, 
and  said  solemnly,  —  "  Appear  not  at  the  judgment- 
seat  against  him  who  has  laid  this  burden  on  thy 
soul !  O  my  unhappy,  parricidal  child  !  I  bow  to 

29* 


342  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

the  dreadful  necessity,  and  choose  as  best  I  may. 
The  deed  is  not  mine  ;  I  only  strive  to  meet,  be 
comingly,  the  death  I  cannot  avoid.  Even  in  this 
awful  moment,  let  me  not  forget  to  thank  him  who 
performs  his  task  with  no  brutal  roughness.  Is  it 
forbidden  me  to  hope  for  the  rites  of  religion  ?  Is 
there  no  priest  sent  to  shrive  the  departing  soul  ?  " 
Stilicho  signified  to  her  that  there  was  not.  An  ex 
pression  of  bitter  disappointment  escaped  her  :  —  "I 
would  fain  have  manifested  my  reverence  for  religion 
with  the  last  act  of  my  life.  It  is  well,  — all  is  well. 
There  is  mercy  inexhaustible,  to  which  my  heart 
whispers  that  even  the  unshriven  sinner  may  ap 
peal." 

So  saying,  she  sunk  on  her  knees,  lost  in  devotion. 
There  was  no  agitation  perceptible  in  her  frame ;  she 
seemed  about  to  commend  herself  calmly  to  Divine 
protection,  at  the  approach  of  quiet  sleep  ;  and  after 
a  brief  exercise  of  the  spirit,  she  again  rose  with  an 
almost  superhuman  dignity  in  her  motions.  "  I  am 
strengthened  ;  —  I  am  ready !  "  said  she  ;  and  throw 
ing  back  the  locks  which  concealed  her  countenance, 
bright  already  with  the  hues  of  immortality,  she  lift 
ed  the  cup  of  poison,  and  for  a  moment  surveyed  the 
dark  liquor  it  contained  earnestly.  As  she  raised  it 
to  her  lips,  the  door  opposite  opened,  and  Father 
Matteo  presented  himself,  haggard  with  anxiety  and 
impatience,  and  ready  to  utter  one  exclamation  of 
triumphant  revenge  as  he  looked  on  her  despair.  She 
paused  only  to  greet  him  with  a  smile  of  celestial 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  343 

sweetness.  "  Father  !  there  is  no  pride,  no  anger, 
on  the  grave's  brink  !  Tell  him  I  forgive  him.  — 
that  I  have  prayed  for  him,  —  and  may  God  pardon 
you  all !  "  With  these  words,  she  drank  the  deadly 
liquor  to  its  dregs,  and  then  regarded  the  group  with 
the  same  heavenly  serenity  as  before. 

The  monk  stood  cowed,  —  trembling,  —  before 
her.  He  had  not  intended  to  witness  such  a  scene  ; 
and  so  unexpected,  so  unearthly,  was  the  aspect  of 
his  victim,  as  she  stood  full  in  the  stream  of  red  sun 
light  from  the  eastern  window,  which  seemed  to  cast 
a  glory  round  her  brows,  —  so  touching,  yet  so  sub 
lime,  was  the  sweetness  of  her  address  to  him,  that, 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  felt  that  he  had  a  con 
science,  —  a  fearful  thing  to  deal  with  ;  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  the  majesty  of  virtue  broke  upon  his 
mind.  One  moment  he  stood  in  dumb  horror,  his 
knees  knocking  together,  and  then,  turning  about,  he 
fled,  panic-stricken,  from  the  walls  of  II  Muro.  His 
horse  had  dropped  under  him  at  its  gates  on  his  ar 
rival,  and  he  rushed  wildly  down  the  mountain  on 
foot,  a  thousand  passions  making  a  pandemonium  of 
his  breast.  His  fatal  rencounter  with  Durazzo  has 
been  described. 

For  a  short  space  after  the  departure  of  the  monk, 
an  awful  stillness  was  in  the  chamber  of  crime.  The 
three  Hungarians,  whose  services  the  use  of  the  poi 
son  had  rendered  needless,  retired  at  a  signal  from 
their  leader  ;  the  just  risen  sun  looked  in  upon  the 
motionless  queen,  who  had  seated  herself  near  the 


344  JOANNA   OF   NAPLES. 

open  window,  and,  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  cru 
cifix,  appeared  again  absorbed  in  mental  exercises 
most  fitting  her  condition  ;  while  Stilicho  leaned 
against  the  doorway,  struggling  with  the  new  and 
strange  sentiments  of  reverence  and  compassion, 
which  the  events  of  this  day  had  developed  in  a 
bosom  not  entirely  hardened.  Suddenly  Joanna  ut 
tered  a  faint  cry  of  pain,  putting  her  hand  to  her 
side  ;  but  as  the  Hungarian  started  involuntarily  for 
ward,  she  smiled  sadly,  and  said,  "  It  is  gone  ;  —  it 
must  return  again  ;  but  it  is  gone  for  the  present. 
I  would  say  one  thing  more  before  my  tongue  shall 
lose  its  office.  They  have  doubtless  bound  you  to 
secrecy.  Keep  your  vow.  A  dying  woman  adjures 
you  to  spare  the  fame  of  her  murderer,  —  for  the 
sake  of  his  innocent  wife  and  children.  Tell  no 
man  that  my  death-arrow  came  from  the  hand  that 
should  have  closed  my  dying  eyes  with  filial  tender 
ness.  Alas,  Charles,  —  the  draught  was  sweet  com 
pared  with  the  gall  of  that  thought !  You  promise 
me  ?  —  that  is  well.  It  is  better  my  people  should 
believe  that  I  sickened,  and  died,  and  went  calmly 
to  my  rest.  It  is  true  :  I  am  ill,  — I  am  ill !  Would 
it  had  been  sent  of  God  !  but  I  can  bear  it  pa 
tiently." 

She  then  leaned  against  the  high-backed  chair,  and 
closing  her  eyes  meekly,  she  pressed  the  emblem  of 
her  faith  to  her  lips  ;  but  another  stab  of  pain  soon 
forced  her  to  moan  aloud,  and  as  she  looked  upward 
imploringly  to  heaven,  Stilicho  saw  that  her  pale- 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  345 

ness  had  increased.  Falling  on  his  knees  before  her, 
he  exclaimed,  —  "  Let  me  depart.  I  cannot  bear  it. 
I  have  looked  on  death  many  a  time,  —  but  not  on 
such  as  this.  Let  me  depart !  " 

Compassionately  the  queen  turned  to  the  subdued 
man  of  guilt,  as  she  answered,  —  "  Ay,  it  is  better 
that  you  should  go.  Forbid  my  women  to  come 
hither  till  noonday  ;  then  they  will  find  me  sleeping 
indeed.  I  would  that  no  heart  should  be  wrung  by 
witnessing  the  sufferings  through  which  I  must  pass. 
Will  they  be  long,  think  you  ?  " 

"  I  know  not,"  said  Stilicho  ;  "  the  monk  prepared 
the  draught." 

"  Why  do  I  ask  ?  "  added  Joanna.  "  Eternity 
alone  is  long ;  moments  and  hours  are  nothing  to  me 
now.  O,  begone  !  these  pangs  come  fast  and  keen. 
Repent,  —  and  be  forgiven.  Trust  not  the  absolu 
tion  of  priests.  Nay  ;  I  forgive  you,  but  that,  too, 
is  the  forgiveness  of  frail  humanity,  —  of  kindred 
dust.  Go  ;  for  the  venom  works  fast."  Stilicho 
saw  tokens  of  its  dreadful  efficiency  in  the  increas 
ing  lividness  of  her  complexion  and  in  her  dilating 
eyeballs.  He,  too,  hurried,  shuddering,  from  her 
presence  ;  —  and  Joanna  of  Naples  was  left  to  strug 
gle  alone  with  death  ! 

Half  an  hour  passed  away  ;  she  still  breathed  ;  but 
her  limbs  were  becoming  cold  and  lifeless  ;  stupor 
was  upon  her  open  but  dull  organs  of  vision,  and  her 
arms  hung  down  powerless  by  her  side  ;  yet  con 
sciousness  had  not  altogether  left  her.  Her  lips 


346  JOANNA  OF  NAPLES. 

moved  occasionally,  and  a  gleam  of  intelligence  now 
and  then  shot  from  those  orbs,  which  once  beamed 
light  from  the  pure  soul  within  ;  the  spirit  seemed 
loath  to  quit  its  fair  shrine.  At  last  the  sacred  still 
ness  was  again  broken  by  the  sound  of  approaching 
footsteps.  The  queen  heard  them ;  there  was  some 
thing  familiar  in  the  sound.  She  struggled  to  rise  ; 
and  as  she  sat  upright,  stiff,  and  with  the  counte 
nance  of  a  corpse,  Charles  of  Durazzo  appeared  on 
the  threshold,  himself  hardly  wearing  the  semblance 
of  a  living  man,  so  wan  and  spectre-like  was  his  as 
pect.  With  an  unearthly  cry  he  rushed  forward  and 
fell  at  her  feet,  —  and  then,  suddenly  rising  again, 
exclaimed,  —  "  Thou  art  not  dying,  —  thou  must  not 
die  !  "  He  looked  wildly  about  the  apartment,  — 
"  I  see  them  not ;  I  see  no  mark  of  intrusion  here,  — 
I  am  not,  then,  too  late  !  Thou  art  ill,  my  mother?  " 
"  Ay,  ill  unto  death;  Charles  !  Thou  hast  called 
me  back  from  its  shadows  ;  but  they  gather,  —  they 
gather."  Her  speech  faltered,  and  her  sight  grew 
dim  again  ;  but  she  pointed  to  the  silver  cup  on  the 
table.  Charles  looked  at  it,  —  at  his  expiring  ben 
efactress  ;  there  was  unutterable  anguish  on  his  face, 
and  he  covered  it  with  his  hands ;  but  a  bright  smile 
irradiated  the  features  of  the  queen,  as  she  mur 
mured,  —  "  God  hath  spared  my  reason,  —  and  I  see 
thee  mourn  thy  crime.  Could  I  but  have  spoken  one 
word  to  my  brave  husband,  —  to  my  sweet  Marga 
ret  !  To  die  is  not  dreadful,  Charles !  Heaven  hath 
permitted  me  to  behold  thy  tears,  —  and  I  go  where 


JOANNA   OF   NAPLES.  347 

there  is  mercy.  I  would  not  return,  —  I  would  not 
return  !  "  The  words  died  inarticulately  on  her  lips, 
as  thus,  thoughtful  of  others  to  the  last,  she  soothed 
the  sinner's  remorse.  Charles  endeavoured  to  sup 
port  her,  when,  writhing  with  a  sudden  return  of 
pain,  she  attempted  to  sink  on  her  knees,  but  in  the 
effort  fell  heavily  forward  from  his  enfeebled  arms, 
and  lay  dead  at  the  feet  of  her  murderer  ! 

The  Hungarians  had  been  guided  down  a  shorter 
path  to  the  valley  by  some  mountaineers ;  and  when 
the  wretched  Durazzo  once  more  reached  the  monas 
tery,  a  rumor  was  already  circulating,  that  the  queen 
had  died  of  a  sudden  illness.  Margaret  had  heard 
and  understood  it,  and,  shunning  her  guilty  husband, 
was  already  on  her  way  to  take  shelter  in  a  distant 
convent.  Once  in  her  after  life  she  appears  on  the 
page  of  history,  as  regent  during  her  son's  minority. 
The  young  Giovanni,  alienated  from  the  master  he 
had  loved  till  so  foul  a  crime  repelled  the  most  en 
during  affection,  had  fled  to  Otho,  who,  cured  of  his 
wounds  and  released  from  prison,  was  hurrying  to 
join  Louis  of  Anjou. 

The  body  of  the  lamented  Joanna  lay  in  state  in 
the  church  of  Santa  Chiara,  bearing  no  external  mark 
of  violence ;  where  the  tears  of  a  grateful  and  idoliz 
ing  people  bewailed  her  unmerited  sorrows,  and  moth 
ers,  as  they  looked  on  her  marble  features,  thinking 
that  so  much  beauty,  genius,  magnanimity,  and  vir 
tue  would  never  again  be  vouchsafed  to  them  in  the 
form  of  an  earthly  sovereign,  read  the  solemn  lesson, 


348  JOANNA   OF  NAPLES. 

and  forbore  to  ask  of  Heaven  those  external  advan 
tages  for  their  children,  which,  even  when  combined 
with  high  moral  qualities,  had  brought  to  one  woman 
so  little  felicity. 

But  of  her  assassin,  the  pen  of  fiction  shall  not 
tell  the  tale  of  retribution.  "  After  a  turbulent  and 
unhappy  reign  of  three  short  years,  he  deemed  him 
self  securely  fixed  on  the  throne  of  Naples,  and  pro 
ceeded  to  Hungary  to  wrest  the  crown  from  Maria, 
the  daughter  and  heiress  of  Louis  of  Hungary,  the 
old  enemy  of  dueen  Joanna.  The  young  queen  of 
Hungary,  who  was  then  about  fifteen,  was  of  a  gen 
erous,  frank,  and  noble  nature  ;  but  her  mother,  the 
regent  Elizabeth,  was  more  than  a  match  for  Duraz- 
zo  in  artifice  and  cruelty.  By  her  machinations,  he 
was  decoyed  into  the  apartment  of  Maria,  and  while 
he  stood  reading  a  paper,  a  gigantic  Hungarian,  se 
cretly  stationed  for  that  purpose,  felled  him  to  the 
earth  with  his  sabre.  His  death,  however,  was  not 
instantaneous; — he  lingered  for  two  days  in  agonies, 
neglected  and  abandoned ;  at  length  his  enemies,  be 
coming  impatient  of  his  prolonged  existence,  and 
fearful  of  his  recovery,  caused  him  to  be  suffocated 
or  strangled." 


ELIZABETH   CARTER. 


PREFACE. 


THIS  sketch  of  Miss  Carter  was  prepared  some 
years  ago,  and  intended  as  the  first  of  a  series, 
to  be  entitled,  "  Biographical  Sketches  of  Six  Dis 
tinguished  English  Ladies  of  the  Last  Century." 
Mrs.  Barbauld,  as  the  one  best  known  to  the  mod 
ern  public,  should  perhaps  have  been  selected  as 
the  first  for  notice,  but  the  author,  hoping  to  com 
plete  the  series,  began  chronologically.  She  has 
been  obliged  to  relinquish  the  plan,  but  as  the 
memoir  of  Miss  Carter  was  ready  for  the  press,  she 
offers  it,  in  hopes  that  a  true  portrait  of  a  woman 
so  truly  wise  and  excellent  may  excite  some  in 
terest  and  do  some  good  among  her  young  coun 
trywomen. 


ELIZABETH    CARTER. 


Ax  the  close  of  the  last  century,  England  could 
show  among  her  females  a  circle  whose  qualities 
were  of  the  highest  order,  and  whose  names  ought 
not  to  pass  entirely  from  the  memory  of  man.  Yet 
man,  and  woman  too,  are  already  forgetting  them 
and  their  acquirements,  and  their  virtues,  as  if  all 
these  things  were  given  to  bless  but  one  generation, 
and  to  perish  from  earth,  as  the  dust  with  which 
they  were  linked  mingles  with  the  grave  soil. 

Of  these  distinguished  women,  we  would  single 
out  Miss  Carter  as  the  most  remarkable,  if  not  the 
most  estimable.  We  would  not  speak  of  her  as 
merely  the  most  learned  woman  England  ever  knew, 
but  as  combining  in  herself  many  of  the  best  and 
most  elevated  characteristics  of  woman,  and  there 
fore  deserving  the  respect  and  love  of  her  own  sex, 
their  study,  their  imitation,  in  some  points  at  least. 

She  was  born  on  the  sixteenth  of  December,  in 
the  year  1717.  Her  father  was  a  pious  and  learned 
clergyman  of  the  Established  Church,  living  at  Deal, 

30* 


354  ELIZABETH   CARTER. 

on  the  southeastern  coast  of  England.  She  was 
left  motherless  at  the  age  of  ten  ;  but  her  father 
formed  a  second  connection,  which  seems  to  have 
been  a  judicious  and  happy  one,  and  to  have  exerted 
a  favorable  influence  upon  the  character  of  Eliza 
beth.  It  was  the  plan  of  Dr.  Carter  to  give  his 
daughters,  as  well  as  his  sons,  a  classical  education. 
But  Elizabeth  was  not  a  genius.  She  had  not  a 
quick  memory,  and  the  study  of  Latin  and  Greek 
cost  her  such  severe  application,  that  her  father  him 
self  changed  his  purpose  and  wish,  dissuading  her 
zealously  from  these  pursuits.  But  she  loved  knowl 
edge,  and  loved  to  overcome  difficulty.  She  had  a 
spirit  of  patient,  indefatigable  toil.  All  that  is  thus 
acquired  is  acquired  thoroughly ;  and  the  foundations 
of  her  learning  were  laid  deep  and  solid.  Her  perse 
verance  without  the  stimulus  of  rapid  success,  or  pa 
rental  urgency,  shows  her  firmness  of  purpose,  and 
the  result  is  full  of  encouragement  for  those  easily 
disheartened  by  their  want  of  brilliant  capacity. 

With  all  this  love  and  power  of  close  application, 
she  had  a  great  flow  of  spirits,  which  were  held  in 
restraint  only  by  the  silken  bonds  of  discretion.  Her 
father  was  no  formalist.  He  enjoyed  her  liveliness, 
and  mingled  in  her  pleasures  when  he  could,  feeling 
truly  that  small  harm  can  befall  the  young,  where  a 
parent  shares  alike  their  gravest  and  gayest  pursuits. 

She  made  an  attempt  once  in  her  life  to  ascertain 
whether  she  had  a  talent  for  drawing.  We  are  bound, 
perhaps,  to  seek  whatever  acquisitions  of  knowledge 


ELIZABETH    CARTER.  355 

or  accomplishment  may  come  within  our  reach,  both 
for  the  development  of  our  whole  nature,  and  with  a 
view  to  various  unforeseen  emergencies  of  life,  in 
which  they  may  become  pleasant  or  useful  resources. 
Bat  soon  discovering  her  own  deficiency,  she  had  too 
much  good  sense  to  persevere,  deeming  no  mere  ac 
complishment  worthy  the  immense  sacrifice  of  time 
it  must  require  from  those  who  have  not  a  decided 
talent  for  it.  She  took  more  pains  to  learn  music, 
but  failed  here  also.  French  she  spoke  fluently 
through  life,  having  been  sent  to  pass  a  year  in  the 
family  of  a  French  refugee  minister,  to  acquire  it. 
The  sciences,  with  the  exception  of  their  stately 
queen,  Astronomy,  do  not  appear  to  have  interested 
her  so  deeply  as  the  languages;  yet  she  was  too  true 
a  lover  of  all  knowledge  to  neglect  them.  In  giving 
a  lively  account  to  some  young  friend  of  her  hav 
ing  "  fallen  in  love  with  a  Dutchman,"  she  states 
that  her  cure  was  effected  by  "  a  dose  of  Algebra, 
fasting." 

She  acquired  the  Italian,  Spanish,  and  German 
languages  by  her  own  unaided  efforts,  at  a  very 
youthful  age,  the  Portuguese  at  a  later  period,  and 
still  later  she  marched  up  alone  to  attack  the  wild, 
solitary  fortress  of  the  Arabic.  Through  life  she 
made  a  practice  of  reading  a  portion  of  Hebrew  daily 
when  in  health.  It  seems  not  unlikely  that  the  diffi 
culties  she  early  encountered  arose,  in  some  degree, 
from  her  rejection  of  those  humble  but  invaluable  lad 
ders  to  knowledge,  grammars.  Since  she  was  not 


356  ELIZABETH   CARTER. 

one  to  be  discouraged  by  the  dryness  of  learning  de 
clensions  and  conjugations,  we  are  at  a  loss  to  under 
stand  how  she  fell  into  a  mistake  which  involved  so 
much  unnecessary  expense  of  time  and  labor. 

She  committed  a  more  serious  error  in  studying 
late  at  night,  binding  wet  towels  around  her  head, 
arid  chewing  green  tea  to  keep  herself  awake.  That 
Elizabeth  Carter  should  have  sinned  in  the  slightest 
degree  against  the  laws  of  our  physical  nature  does 
not  prove  that  she  was  deficient  in  conscientiousness 
on  this  important  point,  but  only  that  the  subject 
was  not  well  understood  in  those  days.  Could  the 
pages  of  Combe  have  been  placed  in  her  youthful 
hands,  she  would  have  made  no  false  balance  of  lit 
erary  progress  against  health,  and  the  headaches 
which  so  often  racked  her  brain  through  a  long  life 
probably  would  have  been  unknown  to  her.  Those 
who  set  so  just  a  value  on  time  as  she  did  must  see 
the  importance  of  avoiding  an  evil  that  may  occa 
sionally  incapacitate  them  for  useful  employment. 
There  is  a  terrible  waste  of  time  occasioned  by  sick 
ness,  that  might  have  been  avoided. 

We  will  now  give  a  passage  from  the  biography 
by  her  nephew,  which,  brief  as  it  is,  we  consider  of 
high  importance.  "  She  found  time  to  work  a  great 
deal  at  her  needle,  riot  only  for  herself,  but  the  fam 
ily  ;  and  this  even  when  in  London,  for  it  appears 
from  one  of  her  father's  letters,  that,  when  one  of  her 
brothers  had  new  shirts,  some  of  them  were  sent  to 
her  to  make  there."  We  doubt  whether,  among  the 


ELIZABETH    CARTER.  857 

changes  that  one  hundred  years  have  produced,  it 
would  now  be  easy  to  find  a  literary  young  lady  vis 
iting  London,  and  moving  in  no  humble  circles,  ac 
tually  making  shirts  for  her  rustic  brothers  with  her 
own  fair  hands. 

In  personal  appearance,  Miss  Carter  was  prepos 
sessing.  Although  her  figure  was  indifferent,  her 
complexion  .was  clear  and  fair,  her  teeth  white,  her 
hair  curling,  and  her  features  expressive.  If  they 
truly  expressed  the  mind  and  heart  within,  —  and 
how  often  does  the  soul  indeed  mould  the  face,  and 
look  out  from  the  eyes  of  an  artless  girl! — she  must 
have  had  power  to  arrest  the  gaze  even  of  a  ball 
room  lounger.  It  would  be  a  serious  omission  to  say 
nothing  of  her  manners,  so  often  does  winning  de 
portment  exercise  the  magic  that  beauty  is  apt  to 
deem  exclusively  her  own.  She  was  near-sighted  ; 
but  that  this  could  have  given  her  no  ungraceful 
awkwardness  is  evident  from  the  readiness  with 
which  she  became  a  favorite.  Acquaintances  speed 
ily  were  converted  into  friends,  and,  in  some  instan 
ces,  friends  into  lovers.  There  must  have  been 
something  peculiarly  engaging  about  her  ;  her  for 
tune  could  have  held  out  no  temptations,  and  a  lady's 
Greek  and  Latin  have  never  been  suspected  of  win 
ning  hearts  ;  yet  she  had  many  admirers,  and  her 
celibacy  was  unquestionably  a  matter  of  choice. 

To  describe  Miss  Carter  as  she  was  in  her  youth, 
and  not  speak  of  her  piety,  would  leave  her  portrait 
barely  sketched  ;  the  rich  coloring  must  come  from 


358  ELIZABETH   CARTER. 

the  skies.  A  mild  light  seems  to  have  shone  in  upon 
her  young  mind  from  the  Scriptures,  and  her  charac 
ter  borrowed  from  it  that  beautiful  tone  which  makes 
it  so  pleasant  an  object  of  contemplation.  There 
was  nothing  in  it  dazzling,  nothing  overstrained. 
She  was  probably  not  often  thrown  in  the  way  of 
Dissenters,  and  seems  to  have  contented  herself  with 
acting  up  to  what  she  had  been  taught,  as  became  a 
meek  and  devout  young  Christian.  Quiet,  earnest 
piety  was  the  foundation  of  her  religious  character, 
the  best  foundation  it  could  have  ;  and  to  this  habit 
of  mind  we  can  alone  attribute  the  perfect  humility 
with  which  she  bore  that  worst  trial  of  the  young, 
flattery.  When  the  tongues  of  learned  men  told  her 
what  she  was,  in  no  measured  terms  of  admiration, 
we  believe  that  her  devout  heart  whispered,  —  "  To 
God  be  the  glory.''  Among  the  means  she  used  to 
keep  the  flame  ever  burning  on  its  secret  altar,  were 
daily  study  of  the  Scriptures  and  the  assiduous  peru 
sal  of  sermons  and  other  religious  works.  As  a  pe 
culiarity  most  worthy  of  imitation,  and  indicative  of 
the  serious  spirit  in  which  she  listened  to  the  preached 
word,  let  us  mention  that  "  she  was  never  known  to 
find  fault  with  any  sermon  in  which  the  doctrine 
was  that  of  the  Gospel,  and  in  which  the  moral  and 
religious  duties  were  properly  enforced." 

Before  she  had  reached  her  seventeenth  birthday, 
she  had  translated  the  thirtieth  Ode  of  Anacreon  ably, 
and  her  literary  reputation  had  begun  to  spread.  Her 
brother  writes  from  Canterbury  school,  that  he  had 


ELIZABETH   CARTER.  359 

"  translated  one  of  the  Odes  of  Horace  so  well,  it 
was  thought  to  have  been  done  by  her."  She  ap 
peared  first  before  the  public  in  the  Gentleman's 
Magazine,  in  which  she  wrote  acceptably,  though 
not  often. 

From  the  age  of  eighteen  she  visited  much  in 
London,  and  early  became  acquainted  with  a  young 
man,  whose  rare  merit  she  appreciated  long  before 
the  signet  of  fame  was  set  upon  it,  and  whose  grow 
ing  reputation  she  must  have  watched  with  peculiar 
interest.  Her  father  thus  writes  to  her  :  —  "  You 
mention  Johnson  ;  that  is  a  name  with  which  I  am 
wholly  unacquainted.  Neither  his  scholastic,  critical, 
nor  poetical  character  ever  reached  my  ears.  I  a  little 
suspect  his  judgment,  if  he  is  fond  of  Martial."  Dr. 
Johnson  always  manifested  a  respect  in  his  deport 
ment  towards  Miss  Carter,  unmarked  by  his  occa 
sional  rudeness  to  others  of  her  sex  ;  an  additional 
proof  that  there  must  have  been  something  gentle 
and  lady-like  in  her  manners.  A  rough,  strong,  fear 
less  character,  such  as  his,  was  more  likely  to  be 
softened  than  awed  into  uniform  civility. 

Pope,  nearly  fifty  years  of  age,  was  the  poet  of 
the  day,  when  Miss  Carter  published  her  translation 
of  a  critique  upon  the  "  Essay  on  Man,"  by  Cronsaz, 
in  which  she  attempted  to  qualify  the  severity  of  the 
author's  criticism  in  her  notes.  No  intimacy  ensued 
between  her  and  the  irritable  poet ;  and  certainly  his 
treatment  of  Lady  Montague  had  no  tendency  to 
lure  another  young  female  upon  the  quicksands  of 


360  ELIZABETH  CARTEK. 

such  dangerous  intercourse.  She  published  several 
small  works,  of  which  she  afterwards  thought  little  ; 
but  they  brought  upon  her  a  torrent  of  adulation, 
which  would  have  seriously  injured  a  mind  less 
strong,  and  a  heart  less  pious.  The  most  extrava 
gant  of  her  flatterers,  perhaps,  was  one  whose  mis 
fortunes  scarcely  overcame  her  dislike,  and  gained 
her  pity,  and  who  sought  in  vain  for  the  honor  of 
intimacy.  This  was  the  celebrated  Savage,  intro 
duced  to  her  by  Dr.  Johnson,  when  she  was  about 
twenty-two ;  and  she  showed  singular  moral  strength 
for  her  years  in  thus  repelling  the  praise  of  a  man  of 
genius  and  of  sorrows,  on  account  of  his  dissipations. 
Would  that  in  this  noble  self-respect,  at  least,  she 
might  find  imitators !  It  proved,  too,  that,  while  she 
could  appreciate  Johnson,  she  had  no  disposition  to 
put  the  leading-strings  of  her  judgment  into  his 
hands  ;  and  that,  while  she  bowed  to  his  towering 
intellect,  she  remained  aloof  from  his  prejudices  and 
partialities. 

Another  occurrence  of  the  same  year  must  have 
been  far  more  gratifying  to  one  who  measured  praise 
by  the  genuine  respectability  of  the  quarter  whence 
it  came.  There  was  in  Germany  at  this  time  a 
young  man  of  nearly  her  own  age,  whose  wonderful 
attainments  had  already  secured  him  fame,  Francis 
Baratier,  an  early  and  ripe  scholar.  This  youth  no 
sooner  heard  of  the  learned  English  maiden,  than  he 
was  desirous  of  opening  a  literary  correspondence 
with  her.  His  wish  was  granted  ;  but  it  was  not 


ELIZABETH   CARTER.  361 

according  to  the  order  of  Providence  that  this  de 
lightful  intercourse  should  proceed,  or  that  the  two 
young  persons  should  ever  behold  each  other  in  this 
world.  Baratier  had  been  a  prodigy  in  his  childhood, 
and  his  race  was  soon  run ;  the  fatal  precocity  of  his 
intellect  had  been  the  harbinger  of  decay.  His  first 
letter  to  her  is  dated  February  24th,  1739.  He  was 
already  ill,  and  in  the  following  October  the  vol 
umes  he  had  loved  were  closed  for  ever,  and  a  weep 
ing  father  followed  the  boy  of  whom  he  had  been  so 
proud  to  an  untimely  grave. 

Two  years  after  this,  Miss  Carter  formed  the 
strongest  intimacy  of  her  life.  It  was  one  to  which 
the  name  of  friendship  in  its  highest  sense  may  be 
given  ;  there  was  the  "  idem  velle  atque  nolle  "  of 
Sallnst;  but  high  and  holy  were  the  things  that  both 
loved,  the  base  and  unworthy  all  that  they  disliked. 
Miss  Catharine  Talbot  was  highly  connected,  accom 
plished,  admired  in  the  great  world,  yet  bearing  in 
the  depths  of  her  soul  treasures  like  ocean  pearls,  of 
which  the  great  world  knew  little.  Miss  Carter 
seems  to  have  indulged  an  almost  romantic  eager 
ness  to  become  acquainted  with  a  lady  she  had  heard 
so  highly  extolled ;  and,  strange  to  tell,  these  high- 
flown,  youthful  anticipations  gave  birth  to  no  disap 
pointment.  She  thus  breaks  out  in  a  letter  to  a  mu 
tual  friend,  after  having  seen  Miss  Talbot  at  church : 
—  "  Miss  Talbot  is  absolutely  my  passion  ;  I  think  of 
her  all  day,  dream  of  her  all  night ;  must  I  never 
hope  for  a  nearer  view,  till  I  meet  her  glittering 

31 


362  ELIZABETH   CARTER. 

among  the  stars  in  a  future  state  of  being  ?  "  Their 
acquaintance  commenced  immediately  afterwards. 
Drawn  and  held  together  by  so  many  noble  sympa 
thies,  these  two  gifted  young  women  became  inti 
mate  with  a  suddenness  which  in  ordinary  cases 
would  be  imprudent,  and  fraught  with  future  repen 
tance.  Their  correspondence  was  highly  interesting, 
and  continued  whenever  they  were  separated,  till 
one  of  the  parties  was  removed  by  death.  "  It  was 
never  checked  by  even  the  slightest  coldness  or  es 
trangement." 

The  immediate  result  of  this  acquaintance  was, 
that  Miss  Carter  was  introduced  to  the  celebrated 
Dr.  Seeker,  with  whom  Miss  Talbot  and  her  wid 
owed  mother  resided  ;  and  her  acquaintance  in  the 
best  circles  of  London  rapidly  increased.  She  still, 
however,  passed  her  summers  at  Deal,  in  the  happi 
est  of  domestic  circles,  a  blessing  to  each  individual 
connected  with  her.  The  fame  of  her  learning  had 
long  since  thrown  her  simple  town's  people  into  some 
perplexity  ;  they  had  begun  to  think  her  ambition 
and  her  achievements  illimitable,  and  one  of  her 
friends  had  to  contend  stoutly  against  a  report  that 
she  "wanted  to  be  member  of  Parliament."  But  the 
simplicity  of  her  heart  remaining  unalloyed,  at  home 
and  abroad,  she  was  no  less  beloved  than  admired. 

Those  terrible  headaches  had  now  seized  upon  her, 
which  continued  to  mingle  alloy  with  her  purest  en 
joyments  through  life ;  so  that,  whether  travelling, 
studying,  or  partaking  of  social  pleasures,  she  was 


ELIZABETH   CARTER.  363 

perpetually  liable  to  be  driven  to  her  pillow  by  se 
vere  pain.  As  a  proof  that  these  headaches  were  the 
result  of  early  mismanagement,  it  may  be  remarked 
that  exercise  in  the  open  air  kept  them  off ;  and  as 
she  was  a  good  walker,  fearless  of  cold,  and  delight 
ing  to  tread  the  new-fallen  snow,  she  often  escaped 
from  her  foe  by  resolutely  rambling  abroad  even  in 
the  depth  .of  winter.  Yet  it  was  long  before  she 
formed  a  system  on  her  experience. 

In  the  winter  of  1744  and  1745,  she  was  at  Deal 
during  some  part  of  the  season,  when  an  invasion  of 
the  French  was  expected  on  that  part  of  the  coast. 
So  various  are  the  ways  in  which  individuals  are  af 
fected  by  public  affairs,  that  we  find  it  difficult  to  re 
alize,  as  we  read  the  letters  of  a  quiet  family  in  the 
South  of  England  at  this  period,  that  this  was  the 
epoch  selected  by  the  author  of  Waverley.  There  is 
the  thrilling  date,  the  "  year  '45,"  and  the  name  of 
the  Pretender  ;  but  a  set  of  objects  are  brought  be 
fore  us,  very  different  from  the  romantic  and  glitter 
ing  phantasmagoria  conjured  up  by  the  wand  of  the 
Scottish  Prospero.  A  letter  she  wrote  after  an  alarm 
had  been  given  in  the  town  expresses  not  so  much 
apprehension  as  indignation  at  the  indifferent  man 
ner  in  which  the  place  was  prepared  for  an  attack. 

In  the  summer  of  1746,  she  gives  Miss  Talbot  an 
account  of  her  mode  of  occupying  herself,  in  a 
sprightly  letter.  That  mode  seems  to  have  been 
somewhat  desultory  ;  which  leaves  us  to  marvel  at 
the  great  results.  But  it  must  be  remembered  that 


364  ELIZABETH   CARTER. 

;she  was  now  nearly  twenty-nine,  and  that,  during 
the  usually  giddy  period  of  youth,  she  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  studying  intensely  for  many  hours  at  a 
time.  As  she  had  advanced  so  far  as  to  leave  diffi 
culty  behind,  the  same  application  was  no  longer 
necessary.  Her  rule  was,  "  to  read  after  breakfast 
something  in  every  language  with  which  she  was 

• 

acquainted,  so  that  she  never  allowed  herself  to  for 
get  what  she  had  once  known."  Of  this  we  would 
speak  with  peculiar  commendation.  We  have  often 
heard  the  careless  exclamation,  "  O,  I  used  to  play 
and  sing," — or  "read  Italian  and  German," — or  the 
like,  —  "but  I  have  forgotten  all  I  ever  knew  of  it." 
Few,  unless  it  be  the  busy  mothers  of  large  families, 
have  a  sufficient  excuse  for  thus  wasting  past  time. 
It  is  a  property  of  knowledge,  that,  when  once  gained, 
it  is  kept  at  small  expense,  and  whatever  has  cost 
time  in  the  acquisition  should  be  worth  keeping. 

While  in  London,  Miss  Carter  gave  her  hoars  to 
the  society  of  such  individuals  as  Bishop  Butler,  the 
Bishop  of  Oxford,  Dr.  Johnson,  Richardson,  Mrs. 
Montague,  and  others  of  the  wisest  and  best  whom 
England  could  produce.  Intercourse  with  such  a 
world  could  not  enervate  her  mind.  She  went  much 
abroad,  but  not  to  fritter  away  her  time  in  frivolous 
conversation ;  and,  as  she  mingled  freely  with  the 
most  intelligent  persons  of  her  day,  the  work  of  her 
mental  improvement  was  not  likely  to  be  stayed. 
There  was  no  better  way  in  which  it  could  have 
been  carried  on,  after  the  solid  foundation  had  been 
laid. 


ELIZABETH   CARTER.  365 

About  the  year  1749  commenced  the  most  inter 
esting  portion  of  Miss  Carter's  life,  —  the  period  when 
she  was  to  reap  a  reward  for  her  past  toils  more  de 
lightful  than  the  pleasure  of  acquisition,  or  growth 
of  intellect,  in  the  consciousness  of  usefulness.  She 
now  engaged  with  her  whole  heart  in  an  employ 
ment  that  for  a  few  years  confined  her  almost  wholly 
to  Deal.  Her  father's  fortune  was  small,  his  family 
numerous,  and  as  he  wished  to  bring  up  his  youngest 
son  to  the  Church,  from  economical  motives  he  began 
to  educate  the  boy  himself.  But  his  health  and  spir 
its  failed,  and  the  prospects  of  young  Henry  were  in 
jeopardy,  when  his  sister  Elizabeth,  the  daughter  of 
another  mother,  took  up  the  task  with  an  able  hand. 
From  this  time,  her  many  friends  in  London,  with 
the  beloved  Miss  Talbot  at  their  head,  in  vain  urged 
her  to  pass  the  winter  among  them  as  usual.  She 
had  not  taken  up  the  business  of  education  as  a  mere 
summer  recreation,  and  would  not  trifle  with  the 
precious  time  of  her  pupil.  This  was  her  real  busi 
ness,  and  engrossed  her  chief  interest  for  several 
years.  But  for  the  gratification  of  Dr.  Seeker  and 
Miss  Talbot,  while  devoted  to  this  unostentatious 
home  duty,  she  beguiled  her  leisure  hours  with  trans 
lating  Epictetus.  And  this  employment,  taken  up 
accidentally,  and  partly  for  mere  recreation,  event 
ually  made  known  her  great  acquirements  to  the 
world,  and  was  the  source  of  her  reputation. 

Much  good-humored  discussion  passed  between 
her  and  Dr.  Seeker  as  to  the  style  she  should  adopt 

31* 


366  ELIZABETH   CAKTER. 

in  her  translation,  the  worthy  Bishop  complaining 
that  she  was  disposed  to  "  put  Epictetus  into  a  laced 
coat."  He  says  in  one  of  his  letters,  —  "Abruptness 
and  want  of  ornament  often  add  much  force  and 
persuasion  to  what  is  said ;  they  show  the  speaker 
to  be  in  earnest,  which  hath  the  greatest  weight  of 
any  thing."  That  Miss  Carter  was  independent  is 
shown  by  her  having  at  first  maintained  her  predi 
lection  for  a  free  and  elegant  translation  against  such 
learned  authority ;  that  she  was  not  obstinate  is 
shown  by  her  having  finally  adopted  the  plainer 
style,  so  urgently  recommended.  Most  readers  of 
these  silken-phrased  days  would  probably  wish  that 
she  had  adhered  to  the  graceful,  rather  than  the  lit 
eral. 

She  was  now  immersed  in  classical  study.  It  was 
heart-work  as  well  as  head-work  with  her,  for  her 
best  affections  were  called  out  while  training  her 
young  brother  for  his  intended  lot,  and  while  she 
went  on  with  her  translation,  a  delightful  stimulus 
was  supplied  by  friendship.  Nothing  can  afford  a 
writer  more  wholesome  excitement,  than  an  opportu 
nity  of  submitting  his  manuscript  pages,  fresh  from 
the  hasty  pen,  to  the  cool  inspection  of  a  judicious 
and  candid  friend.  In  such  a  case,  criticism  never 
wounds,  and  praise  gives  the  much  needed  encour 
agement.  Melancholy  would  be  the  annals  of  those 
obscure  and  solitary  students,  who  have  dug  in  the 
mines  of  literature  through  long,  desolate  years,  mi- 
cheered  by  the  voice  of  sympathy,  conscious,  perhaps, 


ELIZABETH    CARTER.  867 

of  the  brighter  regions  in  which  their  more  favored 
brethren  were  moving,  but  themselves  never  catch 
ing  the  beam  of  a  human  smile  on  their  lonely  tasks. 

Miss  Carter  was  in  her  thirty-second  year  when 
the  singular  amusement  for  her  leisure  hours  was  de 
vised,  and  as  she  was  too  conscientious  to  bestow 
any  but  leisure  hours  upon  it,  the  work  did  not  ad 
vance  rapidly.  In  the  mean  time  her  Ode  to  Wis 
dom,  then  much  admired,  received  the  compliment 
of  being  translated  into  mellifluous  Dutch. 

After  an  absence  of  four  years,  she  once  more  vis 
ited  London,  where  two  days  of  her  sojourn  were 
passed  with  Richardson,  just  before  the  publication 
of  Sir  Charles  Grandison  ;  and  as  she  esteemed  that 
amiable  author  highly,  the  brief  visit  gave  her  pecu 
liar  pleasure.  She  returned  to  Deal  with  the  inten 
tion  of  preparing  her  translation  for  publication,  at 
the  earnest  instigation  of  her  friends.  Her  head 
aches,  however,  now  became  distressing,  and  the  ill 
ness  of  some  who  were  nearest  and  dearest  to  her 
engrossed  her  time  and  thoughts.  In  the  mean  time, 
a  few  of  her  influential  friends  in  London  entertained 
a  project  for  obtaining  her  a  place  at  court.  A  sit 
uation  more  uncongenial  with  her  tastes  could  hardly 
be  imagined.  She  expressed  the  strongest  repug 
nance  to  being  the  subject  of  such  a  scheme.  Her 
precarious  health  and  her  diffidence  seem  to  have 
formed  powerful  objections  in  her  own  mind  to  a 
court  life,  and  she  adds  in  a  letter  to  Miss  Talbot,  — 
"I  cannot  guess  precisely  what  is  the  office  to  which, 


368  ELIZABETH   CARTEK. 

if  there  be  any  truth  in  this  report,  I  should  be  named. 
If  it  should  be  only  to  teach  the  children  to  read, 
would  it  not  be  a  more  eligible  life  to  be  a  country 
schoolmistress,  '  with  apron  blue  '  ?  If  for  any  thing 
higher,  it  would  be  forming  too  advantageous  an 
opinion  of  myself  to  think  I  was  qualified  for  it.  Of 
Latin  and  Greek  I  might  perhaps  be  able  to  give 
them  some  notions ;  but  this  surely  cannot  be  the 
scheme,  for  since  the  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth  and 
Lady  Jane  Grey,  who  ever  thought  of  teaching  prin 
cesses  Latin  and  Greek.  But  I  am  in  hopes  it  will 
all  blow  over,  for  this  very  plan  was  mentioned  some 
years  ago." 

Her  own  corrections  of  the  translation  were  at  last 
completed,  and  the  sheets  sent  to  Dr.  Seeker.  She 
was  urged  to  prepare  a  life  of  Epictetus,  to  which 
she  thus  replies :  —  "  Whoever  that  somebody  or  other 
is,  that  is  to  write  the  life  of  Epictetus,  seeing  I  have 
a  dozen  shirts  to  make,  I  do  opine,  dear  Miss  Talbot, 
that  it  cannot  be  I." 

When  the  work  was  ready  for  the  press,  a  new 
difficulty  arose  in  the  minds  of  the  pious  friends. 
The  spirit  of  Voltaire  and  Bolingbroke  was  abroad, 
and  timid  Christians  were  full  of  alarm.  Miss  Tal 
bot  became  uneasy  lest  the  publication  of  such  a  no 
ble  heathen  system  of  morality,  at  this  crisis,  might 
supply  weapons  for  the  foes  of  Christianity.  Miss 
Carter  was  not  at  first  infected  with  the  panic  ;  she 
could  not  believe  that  "  infidelity  could  ever  arise 
from  admiration  of  the  sentiments  of  the  wise,  good, 


ELIZABETH   CARTER.  869 

and  religious  among  the  heathen  philosophers."  The 
Bishop  was  next  seized  with  misgivings,  and  as  she 
considered  him  better  acquainted  with  human  nature 
than  her  female  adviser,  his  scruples  nearly  terrified 
the  poor  translator  out  of  publication.  She  was 
finally  induced  by  them  to  prepare  a  Life  of  Epicte- 
tus  and  Notes,  intended  to  counteract  any  injurious 
effect  of  the  text  upon  minds  in  an  unsettled  state  as 
to  belief. 

It  must  be  remarked,  that  her  author  contained 
nothing  immoral  or  profane  ;  such  a  writer  would 
never  have  been  chosen  as  a  favorite  subject  of  study 
by  a  woman  of  the  strictest  principles.  Her  friends 
objected  to  the  display  of  a  mere  moral  system  so 
captivating,  at  a  conjuncture  when  many  were  ready 
to  throw  off  all  religion,  and  seize  on  any  decent 
substitute. 

Miss  Carter  made  the  work  complete  by  adding 
translations  of  the  Manual  of  Epictetus,  and  his 
Fragments.  At  last,  in  May,  1756,  she  was  doubly 
set  free  ;  the  tasks  begun  together  were  completed 
together.  Her  brother  was  examined  for  the  Uni 
versity.  She  waited  for  the  result  with  a  natural 
solicitude ;  her  father  himself  communicated  the  joy 
ful  tidings  of  the  young  man's  honorable  admission  ; 
and  the  surprise  of  the  learned  was  great  when  they 
were  told  by  whom  the  student  had  been  prepared. 

At  the  same  time  she  was  prepared  to  lay  before 
the  world  those  sublime  doctrines  of  the  Stoic  phi 
losopher,  till  now  locked  up  from  the  curiosity  of  all 


370  ELIZABETH   CARTER. 

save  the  erudite,  which  had  enabled  the  old  man 
Epictetus  to  bear  up  under  a  lot  that  seemed  to  the 
beholder  most  wretched.  He  was  a  slave's  slave,  for 
his  master  was  one  of  the  courtiers  of  Nero  ;  he  had 
been  crippled  in  youth,  he  spent  his  days  in  extreme 
poverty,  and  when  his  venerable  head  was  laid  low, 
he  left  behind  him  the  secret  of  his  perpetual  cheer 
fulness  in  the  treatise  which  was  now  to  be  intro 
duced  to  the  Christian  world.  Miss  Carter  felt  that, 
if  an  unbiased  public  should  decide  that  she  had 
failed  in  her  undertaking,  the  charge  of  presumption 
would  lie  on  her  with  double  weight,  because  she 
was  a  woman. 

The  work  appeared  in  1758,  nearly  nine  years 
from  its  commencement.  It  was  published  by  sub 
scription,  in  opposition,  however,  to  Miss  Carter's 
earnest  remonstrances.  Its  reception  was  such  as  to 
justify  the  most  sanguine  expectation  of  her  friends ; 
and  she  was  a  gainer  of  one  thousand  pounds ;  a  cir 
cumstance  of  no  small  import  to  one  who  was  de 
pendent  on  a  father  now  advanced  in  life,  and  far 
from  wealthy.  Her  biographer  remarks,  that  "the 
book  was  much  admired,  and  talked  of  as  soon  as 
published,  and  the  extraordinary  circumstance  of  a 
translation  from  the  Greek  of  so  difficult  an  author 
by  a  woman,  made  a  great  noise  all  over  Europe. 
Even  in  Russia  an  account  was  published  of  her." 

During  the  next  two  or  three  years,  whether  in 
London  or  Deal,  Miss  Carter  seemed  to  bask  in  the 
sunshine  of  literary  reputation,  friendship,  and  do- 


ELIZABETH    CARTER.  371 

mestic  happiness.  But  she  was  doomed  to  realize 
that  Divine  Wisdom  does  not  permit  earth's  most  in 
nocent  enjoyments  to  be  unalloyed.  Her  health 
failed,  and  even  her  spirits  yielded  to  the  depressing 
and  mysterious  influences  of  pain.  She  was  at  last 
restored  by  a  visit  at  Tunbridge,  in  the  society  of 
Mrs.  Montague,  Lord  Bath,  and  Lord  Lyttelton. 
While  at  this  fashionable  watering-place,  she  was 
persuaded  to  publish  some  poems,  and  with  this  lit 
tle  work  ended  her  short  career  before  the  public. 
She  had  no  passion  for  authorship,  none  of  that  de 
sire  to  keep  herself  before  the  eye  of  the  world  at 
all  hazards,  by  which  so  many  are  tempted  to  write 
down  and  stifle  their  own  literary  reputation.  And 
she  was  quite  aware  that  a  poetical  genius  was  not 
among  her  gifts. 

In  the  following  year,  the  competency  which  Miss 
Carter  had  honorably  acquired  enabled  her  to  make 
such  arrangements  for  her  mode  of  life  as  best  suited 
her  tastes.  The  step-mother,  with  whom  she  had 
lived  so  happily,  was  now  gone  to  her  rest ;  her  fa 
ther  had  not  a  house  of  his  own,  and  was  exposed  in 
his  old  age  to  the  inconveniences  of  frequent  remov 
als  from  one  dwelling  to  another.  Miss  Carter  con 
sulted  his  comfort  no  less  than  her  own,  in  purchas 
ing  a  house.  It  was  at  the  southern  end  of  the  town 
of  Deal,  and  commanded  a  fine  view  of  country  and 
ocean,  whose  broad  and  restless  surface  she  loved  to 
contemplate.  While  the  premises  were  under  repair, 
she  went  abroad  with  Lord  Bath  and  Mrs.  Montague ; 


372  ELIZABETH   CARTER. 

for  the  war  having  just  ended,  the  Continent  was 
again  open  to  the  English  ;  and  that  travel-loving 
nation  were  never  backward  to  embrace  the  opportu 
nity  of  rushing  across  the  Channel. 

The  love  between  Miss  Carter  and  the  wealthy 
Mrs.  Montague  was  that  of  sisters,  and  the  purse  of 
the  latter  defrayed  the  expense  of  this  tour.  Yet  no 
painful  feelings,  belonging  to  the  obliger  and  the 
obliged,  seem  to  have  ever  arisen  between  these 
amiable  and  high-minded  women.  Among  such 
alone  can  similar  transactions  occur  without  after 
jealousies  and  difficulties.  The  quiet  and  solitary 
spinster  enjoyed  the  excursion  highly,  for  her  wan 
derings  even  on  British  ground  had  been  few  and  lim 
ited.  In  comparing  the  state  of  things  in  those  days 
with  the  present  restlessness  of  society,  when  the 
facilities  of  travelling  have  set  all  manner  of  men  and 
women  flying  about  the  world  as  indefatigably  and 
seemingly  with  as  little  purpose  as  motes  dancing  in 
the  atmosphere,  we  cannot  help  wondering  how  many 
of  these  sight-seers  are  duly  qualified  for  travelling. 
The  evident  waste  of  privilege  on  some  of  these 
rovers  of  sea  and  land  has  made  us  wish  there  were 
a  customary  preparation  for  travel  as  for  college. 

In  September  she  returned  to  Deal,  and  settled 
herself  down  happily  as  her  father's  housekeeper, 
during  the  principal  part  of  the  year.  The  good  old 
man  had  his  separate  library,  and  through  the  studi 
ous  hours  of  the  day  they  pursued  their  respective 
occupations  apart ;  but  they  always  met  at  their 


ELIZABETH   CARTER.  373 

cheerful  meals,  when  the  similarity  of  their  tastes 
and  their  mutual  affection  must  have  rendered  their 
daily  intercourse  a  source  of  much  quiet  enjoyment. 
Throughout  the  whole  of  her  voluminous  correspond 
ence  with  her  friends,  we  continually  find  affection 
ate  allusions  to  her  father,  brothers,  sisters,  and  their 
children.  Such  passages,  now  that  the  hand  which 
wrote  them  is  cold,  and  the  eyes  which  first  read 
them  are  all  sealed,  afford  us  delightful  glimpses  into 
virtuous  and  peaceful  homes  long  since  broken  up. 
She  by  no  means  reserved  the  agreeable  powers  which 
Heaven  had  bestowed  on  her  for  the  cultivated  cir 
cles.  She  had  none  of  the  intellectual  pride  which 
stoops  not  even  to  gather  a  flower ;  but  in  the  neigh 
bourhood  where  she  had  been  bom  and  brought  up, 
where  her  father  had  preached  and  his  people  had 
shown  both  him  and  her  such  unremitting  kindness, 
she  maintained  an  unceremonious  intercourse.  She 
passed  from  the  company  of  the  great  and  good,  to 
that  of  the  good  only,  with  a  truly  Christian  sim 
plicity.  On  these  occasions  her  genius  and  acquire 
ments  seemed  to  sleep.  Her  nephew  tells  us  that 
many  were  long  acquainted  with  her,  "  who  never 
knew,  till  told  by  others,  that  she  was  acquainted 
with  any  language  but  her  own  " ;  yet,  in  the  partial 
opinion  of  Dr.  Drake,  she  was  probably  the  best  lin 
guist  England  had  produced,  with  the  exception  of 
Sir  William  Jones.  She  considered,  in  her  own 
words,  that  "  every  situation  in  life,  with  respect  to 
society,  requires  a  certain,  expense  and  establish- 

33 


374  ELIZABETH   CARTER. 

ment "  ;  but  still  she  dressed  plainly,  only  taking 
care  to  ward  off  the  charge  which  might  lightly  be 
brought  against  her  as  a  learned  lady,  by  the  most 
scrupulous  neatness.  By  the  judicious  regulation  of 
her  expenses,  she  was  enabled,  even  while  associat 
ing  with  the  opulent,  to  assist  the  indigent,  to  make 
presents  to  her  relatives,  and  to  friends  poorer  than 
herself.  Never  could  she  have  accomplished  all  this- 
while  mingling  with  the  aristocracy  of  England,  if 
she  had  not  been  above  striving  to  cope  with  wealth 
in  externals.  Had  she  manifested  such  an  inclina 
tion,  never  probably  would  she  have  received  from 
that  proud  aristocracy  half  so  much  respect.  As  it 
was,  she  found  both  gentle  and  noble  willing  to  meet 
her  on  her  own  ground.  To  the  great  regularity  of 
her  habits,  which  she  maintained  even  when  in  Lon 
don,  she  probably  owed  the  calmness  of  her  mind 
and  the  length  of  days  which  infirmity  had  ren 
dered  a  boon  little  likely  to  be  granted.  With  all 
her  strictness  and  independence  of  custom,  that  she 
was  never  taxed  with  eccentricity  shows  how  ex 
actly  she  knew  when  it  was  right  to  conform  to  the 
ways  of  the  world,  and  when  to  depart  from  them. 

Charges  Street,  Piccadilly,  was  her  London  resi 
dence,  and  it  was  the  practice  of  the  friends  with 
whom  she  always  dined  to  send  her  home  in  their 
carriages  at  her  own  hour,  ten  in  the  evening.  She 
thus  avoided  the  risk  of  outstaying  her  welcome  un 
der  the  roof  of  any  friend,  and  maintained  her  inde 
pendence,  while  she  participated  in  all  the  intellectual 


ELIZABETH    CARTER.  375 

pleasures  of  such  society  as  continually  sought  her. 
Her  journeys  to  and  from  London  were  performed  in 
the  stage-coach  ;  and  on  these  occasions  she  some 
times  met  with  amusing  adventures.  Once  she  en 
countered  a  stranger,  who  manifested  an  inquisitive- 
ness  that  in  a  son  of  New  England  would  hardly  es 
cape  animadversion.  "  He  fixed  his  eyes  on  my  face, 
and  inquired  if  I  was  not  one  of  the  Carters,  to 
which  I  answered,  '  Yes  '  ;  about  half  an  hour  after 
he  looked  at  me  again,  and  broke  forth,  '  Why,  surely 
you  cannot  be  the  lady  that  is  reported  to  be  so  well 
read  in  the  mathematics,  that  she  has  puzzled  all  the 
naval  officers,  and  a  gentleman  came  on  purpose  to 
have  a  conference  with  her  about  it !  '  — '  No,  in 
deed,  Sir,  I  am  not.'  —  '  Was  it  any  of  your  sisters 
then  ? '  —  '  Not  that  I  know.'  After  many  inter 
rogations,  he  seemed  very  unquiet  and  dissatisfied 
with  my  answers,  and  I  believe  the  good  man  is  to 
this  hour  in  a  perplexity  whether  I  am  the  lady 
that  puzzled  all  the  naval  officers  or  not."  —  In  one 
of  her  letters  from  Deal,  too,  she  gayly  expresses  her 
satisfaction  that  the  Witch  Act  had  been  repealed  ; 
far  and  wide  the  country  people  believed  that  she 
had  the  power  of  predicting  the  changes  of  the 
weather,  and  she  observes,  that,  "  from  my  foretell 
ing  a  storm,  it  will  be  a  mighty  easy  and  natural 
transition  to  my  raising  it." 

When  Miss  Carter  had  thus  arranged  her  plans  of 
life,  she  did  not  forget  the  awful  uncertainty  of  that 
life.  She  no  sooner  had  property  to  bequeathe,  than 


376  ELIZABETH   CARTER. 

she  made  her  will,  with  a  promptitude  which  showed 
how  much  she  had  the  interest  of  others  at  heart, 
and  how  little  she  shrunk  from  contemplating  the 
solemn  closing  of  all  earthly  duties.  This  is  one  in 
stance  among  many  which  we  would  gladly  select, 
as  exemplifying  the  peculiarity  of  Elizabeth  Carter's 
character.  We  feel  that  we  can  hardly  dwell  too 
much  on  the  fact,  that  she  did  not  surpass  her  sex  in 
genius,  that  it  was  not  by  the  brilliancy  of  her  tal 
ents  that  she  commanded  universal  respect.  It  was 
by  higher  attributes.  Her  strong  mind  was  admira 
bly  regulated.  Her  great  learning  was  the  fruit  of 
patient  toil ;  but  no  duties  were  overlooked  or  slight 
ed,  no  acquirement  or  object  was  suffered  to  monopo 
lize  her  interest.  She  never  acted  rashly,  she  never 
procrastinated,  she  was  not  governed  by  mere  im 
pulse.  She  was  emphatically  a  female  sage,  and  the 
high  quality  of  wisdom  was  in  her  adorned  with  all 
Christian  graces.  In  short,  she  seems  to  have  truly 
felt  what  an  excellent  female  writer  of  her  own  time 
has  so  well  expressed,  —  "  What  a  woman  knows  is  of 
little  consequence  compared  with  what  a  woman  is." 
Her  life  henceforward  flowed  on  in  a  useful  but 
quiet  routine.  Her  days  were  singularly  prosperous : 
the  only  sorrows  which  befell  her  came  in  the  ordi 
nary  course  of  events,  and  it  was  long  before  the 
golden  links  began  to  drop  from  the  chain  of  her 
friendships.  But  those  whom  she  valued  were  now 
to  commence  the  long  series  of  departures  which  at 
last  left  her  the  survivor  of  each  early  friend.  The 


ELIZABETH   CARTER.  377 

beneficial  effect  of  the  Spa-waters  on  Lord  Bath's 
health  had  been  only  temporary  ;  in  the  summer 
after  his  tour  on  the  Continent  with  the  Montagues 
and  Miss  Carter,  this  child  of  prosperity  expired,  ad 
vanced  in  life,  but  unimpaired  in  his  faculties.  It 
was  of  him  that  Sir  Robert  Walpole  declared,  that 
he  "  dreaded  the  tongue  of  Pulteney  more  than 
another  man's  sword."  Struggling  against  that  able 
minister,  he  had  indeed  fought  much  on  the  dismal 
arena  of  politics.  "Non  ragionam  di'  lor,  ma  guarda 
e  passa."  Amiable,  disinterested,  highly  polished, 
and  exemplary,  he  had  won  the  esteem  of  Miss  Car 
ter,  and  in  him  she  mourned  a  zealous  friend.  Her 
opportunities  of  observing  his  private  character  were 
such  as  do  not  often  occur,  where  the  parties  are 
both  unmarried.  After  his  death  she  remarked,  that, 
during  the  months  in  which  she  had  been  his  fellow- 
traveller,  she  "  did  not  recollect  a  single  instance  of 
peevishness,"  and  that  she  "  never  heard  him  use  a 
harsh  or  even  uncivil  expression  to  any  of  his  ser 
vants."  This  was  better  than  Chesterfieldian  polite 
ness. 

Legacies  from  friends  increased  Miss  Carter's  means 
of  doing  good.  At  Deal  she  became  almost  an  ob 
ject  of  veneration,  among  the  families  of  the  hardy 
seafaring  people  on  the  coast.  It  was  not,  however, 
mere  gratitude  for  her  bounty  that  endeared  her  to 
these  simple-minded  persons.  However  indistinct 
were  their  conceptions  of  the  nature  of  her  great 
ness,  they  saw  that  she  was  looked  up  to  by  those 


378  ELIZABETH    CARTER. 

whose  external  appendages  of  wealth  and  rank  they 
could  fully  comprehend,  and  her  kind,  unpretending 
manners  under  such  circumstances  had  a  peculiar 
charm.  Her  influence  among  them  was  never 
abused.  On  the  contrary,  the  temptations  to  which 
the  habits  and  situation  of  this  part  of  the  island  ex 
posed  them  were  counteracted  by  Miss  Carter  in 
every  possible  manner.  So  great  was  her  respect 
for  the  laws  of  the  country,  that,  while  many  of  her 
wealthier  neighbours  did  not  hesitate  to  "  load  their 
coaches  with  contraband  goods,"  she  never  would 
purchase  an  article,  even  from  a  common  store,  which 
she  suspected  to  have  been  smuggled.  Yet,  in  com 
passion  for  the  ignorance  of  the  poorer  classes,  mis 
led  by  the  example  of  their  superiors,  she  would  ex 
tend  her  advice  and  assistance  to  the  families  of  the 
wretched  smugglers  themselves  in  their  seasons  of 
distress. 

We  will  remark  here,  that,  although  some  of  Miss 
Carter's  intimacies  lay  among  the  distinguished  polit 
ical  characters  of  the  day,  they  kindled  no  fire  of 
party  spirit  in  her  breast.  She  had  her  opinions  ; 
she  thought  Wilkes  no  patriot,  and  Churchill  no  po 
et  ;  but  her  dislike  of  them  was  neither  rancorous 
nor  loquacious.  She  was  a  Greek  scholar,  but  still 
a  true  retiring  woman,  and  no  politician. 

That  her  mildness  did  not  result  from  a  phlegmatic 
temperament  is  shown  by  the  generous  warmth  she 
manifested  when  Dr.  Johnson  was  grossly  assailed 
by  newspaper  writers,  and  by  her  use  of  such  strong 


ELIZABETH   CARTER.  379 

expressions  as  the  following,  in  speaking  of  one  of 
her  French  contemporaries  :  —  "By  your  account  of 
Rousseau's  book,  I  fear  it  is  likely  to  do  more  harm 
than  good,  which  seems  to  be  the  case  with  all  his 
writings  that  I  have  seen.  It  is  a  pity  he  does  not 
pursue  his  own  favorite  theory  of  running  wild  and 
grazing  among  the  animals,  whose  morals  would  be 
in  no  danger  of  being  relaxed  by  his  stories,  nor  their 
principles  poisoned  by  his  philosophical  whims." 

The  death  of  Dr.  Seeker,  Archbishop  of  Canter 
bury,  deprived  her  of  one  whom  she  had  had  cause 
to  reverence  and  love  for  twenty  years.  Whatever 
may  have  been  the  opinion  entertained  of  him  by 
the  Dissenters,  in  whose  faith  he  had  been  brought 
up,  and  who  could  not  but  look  on  his  frequent 
church  preferments  with  a  suspicious  eye,  his  learn 
ing  and  abilities  were  great,  his  disposition  benev 
olent,  and  his  qualities  as  a  friend  admirable.  Miss 
Carter  mourned  him  deeply.  Many  of  her  happiest 
hours  had  been  spent  at  Lambeth  ;  and  when  her 
friend,  Miss  Talbot,  left  it  with  her  mother,  she,  too, 
bade  a  last  adieu  to  a  spot  almost  sanctified  in  her 
eyes. 

Soon  after  this  bereavement,  she  lost  an  amiable 
female  friend  who  had  suffered  much,  and  whom  she 
had  benefited  much  by  her  own  lively  temperament 
arid  animating  Christian  faith.  Constitutional  cheer 
fulness  is  not  always  regarded  as  it  should  be,  as  a 
trust,  like  intellectual  power ;  an  advantage  bestowed 
not  for  our  own  enjoyment  alone,  but  a  thing  which 


380  ELIZABETH   CARTER. 

may  be  made  a  blessing  to  our  fellow-creatures,  and 
for  the  right  use  of  which  we  are  therefore  held  re 
sponsible.  Miss  Carter  poured  the  sunshine  of  her 
own  happy  spirit  on  hearts  which  had  been  darkened 
by  ill  health,  sorrow,  or  that  seemingly  causeless 
melancholy  which  steals  mysteriously  over  some 
sensitive  minds,  to  be  smiled,  not  chidden,  away. 

In  this  same  year,  1769,  an  interruption  occurred 
in  her  correspondence  with  Miss  Talbot.  The  once 
fluent  pen  was  checked,  for  one  of  the  most  dread 
ful  maladies  which  assail  this  strange  structure  of  the 
human  body  had  long  been  secretly  preying  on  her 
constitution,  and  the  termination  of  her  pangs  ap 
proached.  This  exemplary  woman  had  concealed 
from  her  aged  mother  the  existence  of  a  cancer  in 
her  side,  from  the  kindest  motives  ;  but  a  few  other 
friends  and  attendants  knew  her  condition,  among 
whom  was  Miss  Carter.  As  the  year  1770  opened, 
Miss  Talbot  escaped  from  the  torments  of  her  dis 
ease  to  receive  the  reward  of  her  Christian  patience. 

Her  death  was  a  severe  bereavement  to  Miss  Car 
ter.  She  writes  on  the  subject  to  her  various  corre 
spondents  with  expressions  of  deep  grief,  chastened 
by  pious  resignation  ;  and  thus  alludes  to  the  virtues 
of  the  departed  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Vesey  :  —  "While 
she  was  in  a  mortal  state,  I  was  accustomed  to  look 
up  to  her -as  the  most  perfect  pattern  of  goodness  I 
ever  knew  ;  and  now  my  thoughts  pursue  her  into 
the  world  of  glorified  spirits  with  more  awful  im 
pressions.  I  cannot  help  considering  her  sometimes 


ELIZABETH   CARTER.  381 

as  more  present  to  my  view  than  when  the  veil  of 
corporeal  obstruction  obscured  my  sight." 

To  a  single  woman,  now  advancing  into  the  vale 
of  years,  it  was  a  loss  to  be  peculiarly  felt ;  for  bonds 
of  almost  sisterly  sympathy  were  broken,  and  it  was 
too  late  to  weave  them  anew.  But  among  other  no 
ble  sources  of  consolation,  Miss  Carter  turned  herself 
to  the  task -of  cheering  the  heart-stricken  parent  of 
her  friend  ;  and  letters  passed  constantly  between 
her  and  the  venerable  Mrs.  Talbot,  for  the  twelve 
long  years  during  which  the  widowed  and  childless 
lingered  among  scenes  once  so  happy.  She  died  at 
the  age  of  ninety-two. 

Although  Miss  Carter  had  ceased  to  come  before 
the  public,  her  pen  was  not  idle  ;  the  published  col 
lections  of  her  letters  are  voluminous ;  and  these  un 
studied  effusions  all  bear  the  stamp  of  good  sense, 
learning,  cheerfulness,  an  affectionate  spirit,  and 
piety.  They  are  free  from  pedantry,  vanity,  and 
cant ;  they  contain  not  a  trace  of  envy  or  unkindness 
towards  any  human  being ;  they  are  full  of  judicious 
criticisms,  of  allusions  to  passing  events  and  distin 
guished  characters  of  her  time,  which  now  have  an 
historical  interest ;  and  they  afford  us  many  pleasant 
glimpses  into  the  domestic  manners  of  the  day. 

There  is  a  passage  in  one  of  her  letters  to  Mrs. 
Vesey,  dated  April,  1770,  which  we  are  tempted  to 
quote,  because  it  bears  on  a  subject  that  has  recently 
and  justly  attracted  much  attention,  particularly  in 
this  country ;  we  mean  the  relation  between  mistress 


382  ELIZABETH   CARTER. 

and  servant.  "  My  two  damsels  have  behaved  so 
wickedly  during  my  absence,  that  no  consideration 
of  my  own  case  ought  to  prevent  my  parting  with 
them ;  and  I  am  looking  out  for  two  others  to  supply 
their  places,  who  know  no  earthly  thing  but  how  to 
speak  truth  and  do  as  they  are  bid.  One  such  prize 
I  have  found,  and  am  watching  for  another  equally 
ignorant.  So  you  may  easily  imagine  that  I  have 
too  much  employment,  first  in  teaching  myself,  and 
then  in  teaching  them  the  art  and  mystery  of  their 
business,  to  allow  me  to  think  of  making  any  long 
excursion  this  summer.  I  ought  to  feel  the  less  re 
luctance  at  the  task  which  lies  before  me,  as  I  have 
so  little  power  of  application  to  any  studies  that 
would  be  more  amusing  ;  and  I  take  pleasure  in  the 
thought  of  endeavouring  to  make  two  fellow-crea 
tures  useful  and  happy.  Nor  am  I  discouraged  by 
any  former  want  of  success.  The  trial  is  always  a 
duty  ;  and  with  success  I  have  nothing  to  do." 

According  to  her  biographer,  however,  who  had 
opportunities  of  knowing  the  fact,  she  was  eminently 
successful  in  this  department  of  usefulness  ;  as  we 
think  any  judicious  woman  must  be,  who  sets  out 
with  such  principles.  Her  servants  were  usually  ex 
cellent  and  attached,  seldom  leaving  her  household 
except  to  be  married.  That  she  did  not  indolently 
or  ignorantly  leave  matters  to  their  management  may 
be  inferred  from  such  passages  as  the  following  :  — 
"  I  will  write  to  Mrs.  Chapone  soon  ;  but  just  now 
I  am  in  a  world  of  business  and  bustle,  for  we  have 


ELIZABETH   CARTER.  883 

company  to  dinner,  and  I  am  '  Mango  here,  Mungo 
there,  Mango  everywhere ' ;  so  it  is  well  I  began  my 
letter  last  night.  BetAveen  walking  before  breakfast, 
presiding  over  the  cookery,  and  paying  a  visit,  as  in 
duty  bound,  to  Lady  Camden,  I  have  been  as  busy 
all  the  morning  as  if  I  had  been  actually  doing  a 
great  deal."  —  "  I  have  been  necessarily  confined  at 
home  with  my  two  damsels ;  I  hope  in  a  few  months 
they  will  have  learned  their  business,  and  I  be  freed 
from  the  trouble  of  teaching  it.  My  being  used  to 
a  servant  remarkably  clever,  who  soon  took  all  the 
fatigue  from  me,  renders  my  present  task  more  weari 
some  ;  but  it  must  be  done  ;  and  if  they  are  good 
girls,  as  I  hope  and  believe  they  are,  they  will  amply 
repay  me.  It  is  very  fit  that  there  should  sometimes 
be  occasions  to  prove  by  more  feeling  arguments 
than  mere  speculation,  how  very  much  those  who 
are  placed  in  the  higher  classes  of  life  are  indebted, 
for  a  great  part  of  their  ease,  leisure,  and  comfort,  to 
those  whose  lot  is  fallen  to  them  in  the  lower." 

In  short,  in  spite  of  her  Greek  and  Arabic,  and  in 
spite  of  her  fashionable  London  friends,  she  seems 
to  have  been  much  devoted  through  life  to  the  duties 
of  a  housekeeper,  an  aunt,  a  sister,  and  a  daughter. 
The  Memoirs  of  her,  which  have  so  long  been  be 
fore  the  public,  and  from  which  the  materials  for 
this  sketch  are  drawn,  are  from  the  pen  of  her  eldest 
sister's  son ;  he  dwelt  long  under  her  immediate  care, 
she  assisted  in  his  education,  and  he  had  the  best 
possible  chances  of  studying  her  character  in  her 


384  ELIZABETH   CARTER. 

most  unguarded  hours.  We  cannot  help  placing 
much  confidence  in  the  portrait  he  has  sketched;  and 
the  perusal  of  her  letters,  with  the  allusions  made  to 
her  by  her  contemporaries,  confirms  its  fidelity. 

In  these  letters,  we  find  evidence  of  such  a  taste 
for  the  beautiful  and  picturesque  as  usually  exists 
only  in  a  highly  poetical  temperament,  and  we  can 
not  help  being  surprised  that  her  verse  exhibits  no 
stronger  proof  of  it.  Dwelling  on  the  sea-coast,  and 
looking  from  the  apartment  where  she  was  accus 
tomed  to  read  and  write  out  upon  the  changeful 
ocean,  she  seems  to  have  fully  enjoyed  its  varying 
beauty  and  sublimity.  Almost  every  letter  contains 
some  casual  allusion  to  the  prospect  before  her,  and 
riot  a  phenomenon  in  the  broad  skies  above  escaped 
her  observant  eye.  The  gathering  and  the  scatter 
ing  storm  are  often  sketched  in  a  few  happy  phrases ; 
and  she  has  the  art  of  painting,  with  a  single  felici 
tous  epithet,  that  on  which  a  less  feeling  writer  might 
have  wasted  pages  of  verbose  description  :  —  "  Yester 
day  afternoon  we  had  a  great  storm,  and  a  most  no 
ble  preparation  for  it.  I  scarce  ever  saw  the  '  dread 
magnificence  of  Heaven '  appear  in  a  more  awful 
form.  The  western  horizon  was  involved  in  the 
deepest  gloom,  through  which  the  lightning  vibrated 
in  a  manner  singularly  beautiful.  The  great  expanse 
of  darkness  was  rendered  the  more  solemn  by  a  range 
of  pale  clouds  of  a  remarkable  color  and  form,  by 
which  it  was  bounded  towards  the  east.  The  natu 
ral  expectation  from  the  appearance  of  such  a  sky 


ELIZABETH    CARTER.  385 

was  thunder,  but  it  ended  in  a  most  outrageous  wind, 
which  lasted  about  ten  minutes,  and  then  sank  into 
a  sober  rain" 

"  November  1st,  1769.  I  think,  considering  your 
reluctance  to  get  up  for  the  comet,  you  are  scarcely 
worthy  to  hear  of  my  celestial  phenomenon,  if  I  had 
not  a  need  to  tell  it.  I  saw  this  morning  a  most  ex 
traordinary  rainbow,  as  it  was  only  of  a  single  color. 
The  sun  was  hardly  above  the  sea  ;  his  orb  was  not 
visible,  but  concealed  by  a  strong  golden  cloud,  which 
formed  a  perfect  arch  in  the  east,  of  a  pale  orange 
color,  extremely  distinct.  The  appearance  was  very 
singular,  and  I  thought  myself  in  high  luck  to  get  a 
sight  of  it,  for  it  did  not  last  above  two  or  three  min 
utes  ;  it  vanished  as  soon  as  the  sun  had  shaken  off 
the  clouds  and  shone  out  in  full  splendor." 

As  a  specimen  of  her  attention  to  those  minor  du 
ties  towards  society  from  which  some  are  apt  to  think 
celebrity  may  absolve  them,  we  quote  the  following 
passage  :  —  "  June  20th,  1772.  Indeed,  my  dear 
friend,  I  at  this  time  feel  strongly  the  force  of  the 
prejudice  that  one's  own  house  is  the  best  of  all  pos 
sible  houses,  as  I  have  just  returned  from  a  visit 
which  it  cost  me  a  great  deal  of  exertion  to  pay.  It 
is  true  I  have  a  very  laudable  affection  for  conversa 
tion  ;  but  it  is  equally  true  that  I  mortally  hate  talk 
ing  ;  and  consequently  I  have  no  natural  talent  for  a 
visit.  Yet  a  visit  is  a  part  of  life,  a  debt  which  in 
many  cases  one  owes  to  the  general  relation  of  hu 
man  creatures  to  one  another  ;  and  which  one  has 

33 


386  ELIZABETH   CARTER. 

no  right  to  withhold,  merely  because  it  happens  to 
contradict  some  more  agreeble  amusement.  Well,  — 
quoad  hoc,  —  I  have  done  my  duty,  and  am  flown 
back  to  the  quiet  and  cheerfulness  of  my  own  little 
apartment." 

While  thus  selecting  a  few  brief  extracts  from  Miss 
Carter's  correspondence,  which  may  afford  a  more 
distinct  conception  of  her  mind  and  heart  than  pages 
of  description,  we  cannot  omit  one  which  shows  a 
high  degree  of  independence,  and  illustrates  the  no 
blest  kind  of  independence.     It  must  be  remembered 
that  Mrs.  Montague,  to  whom  she  was  writing,  was 
rich,  admired,  and  fashionable  ;  and  that  her  purse 
even  had  more  than  once  contributed  to  Miss  Carter's 
comfort  and  enjoyment.    Yet,  with  mingled  delicacy 
and  frankness,  she  again  and  again  warns  this  valued 
friend  of  the  temptations  which  within  and  without 
are  besetting  her.     "  Indeed,  I  had  not  the  least  idea 
of  being  angry  with  you  for  wishing  yourself  at  Al- 
mack's  or  Soho  ;  for  it  certainly  is  not  to  me  that  you 
or  any  one  else  is  accountable  for  any  degree  of  time 
or  attention  which  they  think  proper  to  bestow  on 
such  assemblies.     Forgive    me,  my  dear   friend,   if 
the  tenderest  concern  for  your  virtue  and  happiness, 
joined  to  a  persuasion  that  such  superior  talents  and 
advantages  demand  a  most  watchful  attention  to  every 
step  you  take,  tempted  me  just  to  offer  it  as  a  subject 
for  your  consideration,  how  far  your  very  frequent 
appearance  might  be  right  in  mixed  assemblies,  and 
your  example  an  encouragement  to  the  general  dissi- 


ELIZABETH   CARTER.  387 

pation  of  the  world.  But  my  judgment  of  the  mis 
chievous  effects  of  this  kind  of  life  may  very  proba 
bly  be  wrong,  and  beyond  a  hint  I  seldom  proceed. 
I  have  too  much  business  in  endeavouring  to  correct 
my  own  wrong  dispositions,  and  to  reform  the  faults 
and  follies  which  I  feel  every  hour  rising,  to  allow 
me  to  indulge  the  vanity  of  thinking  I  have  any 
right  to  dictate  to  others,  and,  least  of  all,  to  those 
who  have  distinguished  powers  of  judging  for  them 
selves."  In  other  letters  she  speaks  more  plainly  ; 
and  the  unbroken  friendship  of  the  parties  shows 
that  the  manner  of  the  thing  could  reconcile  even 
the  high-bred  idol  of  fashion  to  judicious  reproof. 

In  1773,  another  breach  was  made  in  the  circle  of 
her  dear  friends,  by  the  death  of  Lord  Lyttelton. 
Such  was  the  character  of  her  intimacies5  that,  when 
she  was  called  to  mourn,  society  lamented  with  her 
over  the  loss  of  some  exemplary  individual.  She 
gives  us  a  beautiful  delineation  of  this  pattern  for 
English  nobility  ;  and  bestows  on  him  a  commenda 
tion  rarely  deserved,  —  "  that  amidst  all  the  intricacies 
of  this  perplexed  world,  his  heart  preserved  its  native 
simplicity,  and  was  as  free  from  guile  as  that  of  a 
little  infant." 

Throughout  the  years  1773  and  1774,  we  find  Miss 
Carter's  mind  much  absorbed,  and  continually  made 
anxious,  by  the  increasing  infirmities  of  her  father. 
The  old  man  had  entered  his  eighty-seventh  year, 
but  the  fond  affection  of  his  children  could  not  yet 
spare  him.  Seldom  can  the  age  of  the  good  parent 


388  ELIZABETH   CARTER. 

be  "  dark  and  unlovely,"  if  God  spare  but  his  off 
spring  to  gather  around  his  decrepitude. 

Miss  Carter  concludes  the  letter  in  which  she  an 
nounces  the  death  of  her  father  to  Mrs.  Montague 
with  the  following  words :  —  "At  present,  I  have  a 
sad,  desolate  feeling  at  my  heart  and  an  oppressive 
weight  on  my  spirits,  that  I  cannot  shake  off;  but 
this  I  trust  will  soon  be  relieved,  and  be  succeeded 
by  pleasing  and  comfortable  sentiments  of  gratitude, 
respect,  and  affection  to  the  memory  of  a  father,  to 
whom  I  had  such  uncommon  and  inexpressible  obli 
gations.''  That  there  are  bonds  of  filial  obligation, 
which  nature  tells  us  are  alike  strong  in  all  cases,  is 
true  ;  but  where  the  parental  duties  have  been  dis 
charged  with  unusual  ability  and  devotedness,  there 
arise  obligations  which  do  indeed  deserve  to  be  call 
ed,  "  uncommon  and  inexpressible."  Miss  Carter 
realized  this  fully.  It  is  difficult,  to  judge  how  far 
her  mature  character  was  the  result  of  a  kindly  con 
stituted  temperament,  or  self-cultivation,  or  of  early 
parental  discipline  ;  but  that  the  latter  had  a  large 
share  in  the  formation  of  her  various  excellences 
cannot  be  doubted  by  any  who  have  been  in  the  habit 
of  watching  the  influences  of  home  education. 

From  this  time  she  was  in  one  sense  of  the  word 
alone.  The  regular  companion  of  her  existence,  he 
who  had  dwelt  from  her  earliest  existence  in  the  spot 
she  called  her  home,  was  gone.  To  the  unmarried 
woman,  the  presence  of  a  parent  is  the  essence  of 
home  ;  there  is  none  like  that  of  a  parent's  house. 


ELIZABETH   CARTER.  389 

But  there  was  no  loneliness  of  the  heart  for  her. 
She  took  too  deep  an  interest  in  the  welfare  of  others 
to  sink  into  gloom  and  apathy ;  literature  and  friend 
ship  occupied  her  mind  and  her  affections  ;  devout 
exercises  and  benevolent  deeds  kept  her  spirit  in  a 
heavenly  frame  ;  while  her  sister's  children  taught 
her  the  value  of  a  blessed  relationship,  through  which 
the  childless  carry  down  their  love  to  another  gen 
eration. 

One  of  her  objects  of  attention  was  a  Benevolent 
Society,  which  made  demands  on  time  as  well  as 
money  ;  and  in  charitable  enterprises  of  this  nature 
we  find  her  engaged  henceforward,  with  a  quiet  but 
constant  interest. 

In  the  year  1775,  Mrs.  Montague  lost  her  worthy 
husband,  and,  as  he  left  her  sole  mistress  of  a  large 
fortune,  she  immediately  settled  an  annuity  on  Miss 
Carter. 

Her  headaches,  however,  had  now  increased  to  a 
distressing  degree.  Yet,  as  the  friends  of  her  earlier 
days  passed  from  the  scene,  and  infirmity  fixed  upon 
her  as  her  companion  to  the  grave,  her  gentleness  and 
cheerfulness  attracted  many  of  the  young  to  soothe 
her  decline.  Religious  books  and  the  classics  still 
were  her  favorite  reading ;  and  her  remarks  on  French, 
Italian,  and  Spanish  writers  show  that  they  formed 
a  part  of  her  customary  studies.  She  was  no  ad 
mirer  of  the  French  tragedy.  A  true  Englishwoman 
fresh  and  natural  in  her  tastes,  in  vain  did  she  strive 
to  reconcile  herself  to  the  pompous  declamation  of 

33* 


390  ELIZABETH   CARTER. 

Racine ;  and  at  last  she  gave  it  up,  playfully  declar 
ing  to  Mrs.  Montague,  —  "  If  you  beat  me  for  it,  I 
cannot  help  thinking  that  Pyrrhus  and  Alexander 
make  love  '  en  petits  maitres,'  and  we  should  never 
guess  who  they  were,  if  their  names  were  not  set  to 
the  pictures." 

During  the  progress  of  the  American  Revolution, 
though  she  was  no  politician,  her  letters  contain 
many  interesting  allusions  to  passing  events.  We 
read  almost  with  curiosity  the  various  rumors  of  suc 
cess  or  defeat,  the  apprehensions  with  regard  to  the 
safety  of  one  friend's  son,  or  another's  husband,  — 
expressions  of  sympathy  with  the  bereaved,  specula 
tions  on  the  result  of  the  unnatural  contest,  and  com 
ments  on  the  failing  health  of  Lord  Chatham,  —  till 
the  lapse  of  years  is  forgotten,  we  are  carried  back  to 
the  times  of  our  fathers,  and  view  the  scene  of  their 
struggle  as  it  were  from  the  opposite  shores  of  the 
Atlantic. 

In  the  year  1778,  we  find  a  strong  symptom  of  old 
age  in  the  following  passage  :  —  "  O  lack  !  what 
writing,  or,  as  somebody  used  to  say,  what  writation 
it  all  is !  You  and  I,  my  dear  friend,  have  lived  to 
see  the  mushroom  growth  of  a  new  language  in  our 
country,  filled  with  phrases  which  nobody  could  have 
understood  when  we  were  young."  So  murmured  her 
old  father,  when,  in  his  latter  years,  she  would  have 
persuaded  him  to  read  some  then  modern  work.  And 
the  murmur  is  still  heard  from  thousands  who  grew 
up  among  the  phrases  of  which  the  retired  authoress 


ELIZABETH   CARTER.  391 

complained,  but  love  not  fresh  innovations,  now  that 
their  own  locks  are  growing  gray. 

In  the  year  1782,  then  at  the  age  of  sixty-five,  Miss 
Carter  was  induced,  very  unwillingly,  to  accompany 
some  friends  to  Paris  ;  then  a  scene  of  luxury  and 
gayety,  which,  even  to  the  most  thoughtful  observer, 
gave  little  indication  of  the  bloody  calamities  ap 
proaching.  -  She  did  not  enjoy  this  journey ;  and,  in 
her  homesickness,  wrote  to  a  friend,  that  she  could 
not  help  longing  for  what  she  should  "  prefer  to  all 
the  fine  sights  in  the  world,  a  view  of  the  cliffs  of 
Dover."  Her  sensibilities  to  the  sublime  and  beauti 
ful  were  not  blunted  by  ill  health,  however,  for  she 
strikingly  describes  her  impressions  on  viewing  the 
Cathedral  of  Amiens. 

In  December,  1784,  she  thus  alludes  to  the  decease 
of  another  friend  of  many  years  :  —  "I  see  by  the  pa 
pers,  Dr.  Johnson  is  dead.  In  extent  of  learning  and 
exquisite  purity  of  moral  writing,  he  has  left  no  su 
perior,  and,  I  fear,  very  few  equals.  His  virtues  and 
his  piety  were  founded  on  the  steadiest  of  Christian 
principles  and  faith.  His  faults,  I  firmly  believe, 
arose  from  the  irritations  of  a  most  suffering  state  of 
nervous  constitution,  which  hardly  ever  allowed  him 
a  moment's  repose." 

In  the  following  year,  she  seems  to  have  suffered 
much  from  uneasiness  on  account  of  her  friend,  Mrs. 
Vesey,  who,  after  her  husband's  death,  gave  way  to 
a  morbid  wretchedness,  which  nothing  could  cheer. 
Brilliant  and  popular  as  that  lady  was.  she  seems  to 


392  ELIZABETH    CARTER. 

have  wanted  those  more  solid  characteristics  which 
made  Miss  Carter  happy  under  so  many  bereave 
ments,  and  so  much  ill  health. 

So  uneventful  was  the  life  of  Miss  Carter,  that  it 
affords  little  material  for  biography ;  but  her  letters 
were  full  of  interest.  The  mind  of  a  sensible  spec 
tator,  as  it  appears  in  a  private  correspondence,  has 
the  beautiful,  mirror-like  property  of  reflecting  the 
state  of  society  with  all  its  fluctuations.  We  cannot 
but  muse  over  the  sad  changes  which  she  incidental 
ly  and  almost  involuntarily  portrays.  The  progress 
of  luxury  and  the  increase  of  crime  keep  pace  with 
each  other  fearfully.  Now  we  read  of  conflicts  be 
tween  the  bold  smugglers  on  the  sea-coast,  and  the 
armed  authorities  ;  we  are  told  of  robberies,  house- 
breakings,  and  murders  taking  place  in  parts  of  the 
country  till  now  innocent  and  quiet ;  then  come  in 
stances  of  profligacy  in  high  life,  such  as  were  rare 
in  her  younger  days; — but  with  it  all  are  blended 
allusions  to  so  many  instances  of  public  and  private 
worth,  from  her  virtuous  sovereign  downward,  that 
they  act  like  glimpses  of  sunshine  through  stormy 
clouds,  reminding  one  that  there  is  Light  above, 
which  may  be  obscured  for  a  time,  but  not  quenched. 
There  is  no  moroseness  mingled  with  her  serious  re 
flections  on  the  follies  or  vices  of  the  generations 
rising  about  her.  Her  perfect  confidence  in  Divine 
Wisdom  and  Goodness,  overruling  all,  forbade  any 
fear  lest  evil  should  gain  the  mastery  at  last,  and  Sin 
and  Ruin  sweep  over  the  earth.  Even  during  the 


ELIZABETH   CARTER.  393 

French  Revolution,  when  every  arrival  from  the  Con 
tinent  brought  the  details  of  fresh  horrors,  she  thus  ex 
presses  herself :  —  "In  what  will  all  this  violence  and 
wickedness  end  ?  Perhaps  in  some  important  good. 
Villains,  by  doing  the  dirty  work  which  the  virtuous 
will  not  do,  and  which  may  in  a  corrupted  world  be 
necessary  to  clear  away  the  obstructions  which  lie  in 
the  road  to  some  great  public  benefit,  become  instru 
ments  of  the  reasonable  change  and  reformation 
which  they  never  intended.  Thus,  by  the  overruling 
providence  of  God,  from  the  chaos  of  human  passions 
emerges  a  system  of  order  and  good  government." 

From  September,  1795,  till  December,  1796,  there 
is  a  gap  in  her  correspondence  with  Mrs.  Montague  ; 
during  this  interval  she  had  a  long  and  dangerous  ill 
ness.  She  recovered  sufficiently  to  take  up  her  win 
ter  residence  in  London,  but  when  she  returned  to 
Deal,  the  eyesight  of  her  beloved  friend  had  failed  ; 
and  the  correspondence  at  length  necessarily  closed, 
so  busy  was  the  hand  of  Time  with  both  the  writers. 
In  1802,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Montague  died.  During  all 
the  latter  years  of  her  life,  Miss  Carter  took  a  vivid 
interest  in  the  works  of  genius  which  issued  from 
the  press,  though  bearing  a  stamp  very  different  from 
that  which  had  passed  current  in  her  younger  days. 
She  was  pleased  with  the  better  moral  tone  assumed 
by  works  of  fiction ;  she  shared  in  the  surprise  and 
admiration  which  welcomed  the  brilliant  debut  of 
Miss  Burney ;  and  she  yielded  to  the  witcheries  of 
Mrs.  Radcliffe.  She  always  took  peculiar  delight  in 


394  ELIZABETH  CARTER. 

the  literary  successes  of  her  own  sex  ;  and  when  she 
discovered  that  a  volume  of  plays  which  had  appear 
ed  anonymously,  and  which  she  had  read  with  the 
warmest  admiration,  were  the  production  of  a  youth 
ful  female,  the  since  celebrated  Miss  Baillie,  her  feel 
ings  were  those  of  triumph.  To  this  lady  the  re 
flection  must  be  pleasant,  that  Elizabeth  Carter  lived 
to  bestow  on  her  the  blessing  of  her  society  and  af 
fection.  To  have  won  respect  from  the  excellent  and 
discriminating,  who  have  long  studied  human  nature, 
may  justify  a  becoming  pride,  and  must  stimulate  to 
progress. 

The  contemporary  of  Pope,  Miss  Carter  lived  to 
witness  a  new  school  of  poetry  indeed  ;  but  she  gave 
in  her  adhesion,  by  the  delight  with  which  she  pe 
rused  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel. 

But  her  constitution  was  at  last  completely  broken 
up  ;  the  new  century  had  indeed  dawned  upon  her, 
but  it  had  brought  much  sickness  and  infirmity. 
Her  decay,  however,  was  very  gradual,  and  soothed 
by  the  most  affectionate  attentions  from  the  many 
who  revered  and  loved  her.  It  was  even  cheered  by 
circumstances,  which,  brought  up  as  she  had  been  in 
the  bosom  of  loyalty,  were  gratifying  to  her  feelings 
as  a  subject.  So  far  back  as  the  year  1791,  she  had 
been  admitted  to  a  private  interview  with  Q,ueen 
Charlotte ;  and  she  afterwards  received  various  at 
tentions  from  one  whose  domestic  character  was  in 
harmony  with  the  respect  thus  paid  to  a  virtuous 
private  individual.  Other  members  of  the  royal 


ELIZABETH  CARTER.  395 

family  visited  her  only  a  year  or  two  before  her 
death,  but  with  her  usual  wisdom  she  regarded  these 
occurrences  in  their  just  light ;  she  was  pleased  with 
the  amiable  spirit  indicated  by  them,  not  elated  by 
any  fancied  honor  done  to  herself. 

In  December,  1805,  Miss  Carter  went  to  London, 
for  the  last  time ;  she  took  the  sacrament  previous  to 
setting  out,-  from  her  nephew,  the  Rev.  Montague 
Pennington.  Her  strength  began  to  fail  rapidly  after 
the  first  of  January,  but  her  mind  remained  till  a 
few  hours  before  her  decease ;  and  when,  at  last,  the 
Angel. of  Death  brought  her  summons,  it  came  in 
peace.  She  expired  without  a  struggle,  at  three  in 
the  morning  of  the  19th  of  February,  1806,  in  the 
eighty-ninth  year  of  her  age. 

Although  her  remains  were  deposited  in  London, 
and  an  epitaph  there  placed  on  the  stone  which  covers 
them,  another  monument  rose  to  her  memory  in  her 
native  town  of  Deal.  Both  pay  homage  to  the  union 
of  learning  and  piety  in  one  female  mind.  If,  as  we 
believe,  she  combined  with  these  attributes  an  excel 
lent  judgment,  modesty,  and  sweetness  of  temper, 
her  character  was  indeed  one  fit  to  be  held  up  as  a 
model  to  her  sex.  She  was  an  honor  to  the  century 
in  which  she  lived,  and  deserves  not  to  be  forgotten 
by  that  which  succeeds  it. 


THE    SILVER    BELL.* 


AN  excellent  lady  lay  on  her  death-bed.  Her  limbs 
were  benumbed,  her  voice  feeble,  and  her  head  heavy, 
but  her  warm  heart  still  throbbed  with  a  tender  con 
cern  for  the  good  of  others.  There  was  a  young 
person  in  whom  she  was  especially  interested,  be 
cause  she  had  been  the  intimate  friend  of  her  own 
departed  daughter;  and  a  parent  never  forgets  to  love 
those  whom  a  dead  child  has  loved.  Besides  this, 
the  youthful  Emily  was  beloved  for  her  own  sake. 
She  was  artless  and  gentle  ;  the  lady  looked  upon 
her  fair  face,  remembered  that  it  would  be  difficult 
for  one  so  young,  rich,  and  beautiful  to  escape  the 
power  of  worldliness  in  some  of  its  many  forms, 
and  prayed  for  her,  as  none  but  the  dying,  perhaps, 
can  pray. 

When  she  felt  that  her  separation  from  the  body 
was  really  approaching,  this  Christian  friend  sent  for 
Emily,  and  said  a  few  kind  words  of  farewell,  which 

*  Never  before  published. 
34 


398  THE   SILVER   BELL. 

melted  her  into  tears.  And  then  she  bestowed  upon 
her  a  parting  gift.  It  was  a  morocco  case,  contain 
ing,  not  jewels  for  the  neck  and  arms,  but  a  lit 
tle  silver  bell  of  the  sweetest  tone.  There  was  a 
spring  to  be  touched,  and  then  it  sent  forth  a  low 
but  exquisite  sound,  dying  away  in  melodious  vibra 
tions,  that  seemed  to  ask  an  echo  from  the  heart 
strings.  At  the  same  time,  a  silver  hand,  upon  a 
sort  of  watch-face  beneath  the  bell,  moved  forward 
one  division.  There  were  three  hundred  and  sixty- 
five  divisions. 

"  Emily,"  said  the  departing  friend,  "  I  give  you 
no  farewell  advice,  and  make  but  one  dying  request. 
Each  night  before  you  sleep,  give  at  least  five  min 
utes  to  quiet  reflection  ;  then  touch  this  spring,  and 
then,  when  all  is  again  still,  pray  as  your  heart  may 
move  you.  Touch  the  bell  at  no  other  time  save  in 
this  interval  between  your  evening  meditation  and 
your  evening  prayer.  One  year  from  to-night,  ob 
serve  if  the  hand  has  traversed  the  whole  circle." 

"  Dear  friend,"  exclaimed  Emily,  "  I  have  never 
since  my  childhood  omitted  nightly  prayer,  and  do 
you  think  I  am  in  danger  of  it  ?  " 

"  God  knows  your  dangers  better  than  I ;  but  I 
perceive  that  your  interest  will  soon  be  drawn  pow 
erfully  towards  the  outward,  and  I  would  have  a  link 
between  it  and  the  inward.  For  one  of  your  tem 
perament,  it  may  be  good  to  have  some  visible  token 
of  spiritual  progress  ;  and  I  know  that  if  you  are 
true  to  the  meaning  of  my  request,  and  comply  with 


THE   SILVER  BELL.  399 

it  faithfully,  your  soul  must  make  some  advance  in 
one  year." 

The  friends  parted.  The  faded  face  of  the  one 
was  covered  from  the  sight  of  man  ;  the  blooming 
countenance  of  the  other  soon  went  smiling  again 
along  life's  daily  path.  But  she  forgot  not  the  silver 
bell,  and  each  night,  in  the  stillness  of  her  solitary 
chamber,  her  face  covered  with  her  hands,  she  sat  a 
short  season  in  deep  thought,  questioning  herself  of 
the  day  that  had  just  passed  to  return  no  more,  of 
her  own  character,  her  hopes,  her  dependence  on 
God  and  her  Saviour.  Then,  with  a  deep  feeling  of 
solemnity,  she  opened  the  morocco  case,  touched  the 
spring,  and  listened  to  the  sudden  voice  which  sprang 
forth  in  response,  so  sweet  that  it  hardly  disturbed 
the  tranquillity  of  night,  into  which  it  soon  died 
away.  Then  was  her  soul  attuned  for  prayer,  and 
she  felt  as  if  that  melodious  call  had  brought  a  saint 
ed  spirit  to  join  in  her  act  of  devotion. 

Night  after  night,  week  after  week,  passed  on. 
Winter  came.  Emily  went  to  her  first  ball.  It  was 
very  late  when  she  returned,  for  the  moments  had 
flown,  she  knew  not  how.  She  was  excited,  and 
yet  tired.  She  took  off  her  sparkling  jewels  dream 
ily,  for  her  thoughts  were  where  she  had  been  for 
hours,  and  they  would  not  come  with  her  to  the  dull, 
lonely  chamber.  She  threw  her  delicate,  snow-white 
dress  upon  a  chair,  slowly  inhaled  the  expiring  per 
fume  of  her  bouquet,  wrapped  a  shawl  about  her,  and 
yet  lingered  before  she  sat  down  to  meditate.  It 


400  THE   SILVER   BELL. 

was  very,  very  hard  to  call  back  her  soul  from  the 
splendidly  lighted  ball-room.  In  vain  she  covered 
her  eyes  with  her  hands.  The  absent  faces  and 
forms  of  the  human  creatures,  who  had  been  flitting 
before  her  eyes,  were  more  real  to  her  than  those 
pure  existences  whose  presence  she  was  wont  to  feel 
beside  her  at  this  solemn  season. 

But  the  girl's  conscience  was  yet  pure  and  strong, 
and  she  persevered  in  the  mental  struggle  till  she 
conquered,  till  she  felt  that  she  could  pray  with  a 
heart  wholly  given  to  the  desire  of  holiness.  Then 
she  touched  the  silver  bell,  and  though  strains  of  a 
lighter  character  still  rung  gayly  on  her  ear,  they 
were  hushed  instantly,  they  were  overpowered,  when 
that  voice  of  liquid  melody  came  forth.  Emily 
thought  it  had  a  cadence  of  sadness  she  had  never 
before  observed.  Was  it  only  contrast  with  the  ex 
hilarating  music  of  the  ball-room  band  ? 

And  now  Emily  had  entered  on  a  new  life,  the 
brilliant  debutante  of  the  season.  Her  friends  con 
gratulated  her,  because  it  was  the  gayest  winter,  so 
called,  which  had  been  known  for  some  years.  The 
fashionable  world  seemed  wild  with  the  love  of  pleas 
ure,  and  excitement  in  some  form  was  sought  and 
found  night  after  night.  And  Emily,  too,  pursued 
it,  and  oftentimes  thought  herself  very  happy.  She 
loved  music,  dancing,  the  theatre,  witty  conversa 
tion,  the  graceful  personations  of  tableaux  vivans. 
with  all  their  charming  planning  and  bustle  of  prep 
aration  ;  and  on  she  went,  admiring  and  admired, 
through  a  succession  of  gay  visions  and  triumphs. 


THE   SILVER   BELL.  401 

And  each  night  found  her  enduring  a  severe  strug 
gle  in  the  solitude  of  her  own  apartment,  when  she 
came  in  with  her  weary  step,  and  strove  to  shut  the 
door  upon  the  world. 

For  a  time  conscience  held  her  back  with  a  strong 
hand  from  the  morocco  case,  till  she  was  sure  that 
she  could  in  solemn  sincerity  call  upon  her  Father  in 
Heaven,  and  offer  him  an  undivided  mind.  But,  O, 
it  grew  so  much  more  difficult !  At  last,  despairingly, 
she  would  awaken  the  silver  voice,  trusting  that  the 
thoughts  she  could  not  control  would  obey  that 
blessed  summons.  Then  the  words  of  prayer  would 
pass  through  her  mind,  —  not  rise  up  from  her  heart, 
—  and  with  a  vague,  comfortless  dissatisfaction  she 
would  lay  her  head  upon  her  pillow,  with  no  con 
sciousness  that  the  blessing  of  holy  ones  unseen  was 
falling  upon  her.  And  then  the  enemy  would  return, 
as  if  triumphant  over  her  feeble  attempt  to  baffle  his 
wiles,  and  lost  in  idle  reveries  of  vanity  and  folly, 
she  would  sink  to  sleep. 

So  it  was  with  her,  till  even  this  battle  with  temp 
tation  was  more  than  her  failing  resolution  and  en 
feebled  virtue  could  sustain.  She  might  not  always 
wear  a  chaplet  without  thorns.  The  gay  life  has  its 
vexations  as  well  as  the  busy  one.  Sometimes  she 
stood  before  her  mirror  with  dimmed  eyes,  and  a 
brow  of  perplexity  ;  but  whether  dejected  or  exult 
ing,  she  felt  that  the  sources  of  her  emotion  were 
not  such  as  she  could  call  upon  her  Maker  to  behold 
with  his  holy  eyes,  or  visit  with  his  tender  sympa- 


402  THE    SILVER   BELL. 

thy.  At  moments,  the  utter  frivolity  of  her  life  pre 
sented  itself  to  her  with  such  fearfulness,  that  she 
almost  hoped  she  was  overlooked  in  God's  creation. 
But  this  was  usually  on  Sabbath  nights,  and  fewer 
became  such  awakenings  as  the  year  rolled  on. 

When  nine  months  had  elapsed,  she  had  several 
times  omitted  to  touch  the  silver  bell.  Each  time 
she  had  pleaded  to  herself  that  she  was  too  much 
exhausted  !  —  With  what  ?  —  Too  much  exhausted 
with  dissipation  to  think  of  God,  to  remember  her 
Saviour ! 

At  last,  she  even  forgot  it. 

***** 

The  year  had  almost  expired,  when  God  in  his 
mercy  sent  upon  Emily  a  sudden  and  dreadful  ill 
ness.  The  cholera  messenger  came  to  her.  He  did 
not  "  take  her  out  of  the  world,"  but  came  to  "keep 
her  from  the  evil  that  was  in  it." 

She  recovered.  And  the  first  night  in  which  she 
again  found  herself  in  her  sleeping-room  alone  was 
the  anniversary  of  that  upon  which  she  had  received 
from  a  dying  Christian  friend  the  long-neglected 
silver  bell. 

Again  she  sat  down,  with  her  hands  clasped  over 
her  face,  to  meditate,  and  prepare  her  mind  for  sol 
emn  communion  with  God.  She  felt  as  if  she  had 
almost  seen  him  ! 

There  was  no  struggle  with  gay  images  and  world 
ly  thoughts  now.  She  looked  upon  the  circle  around 
which  the  silver  hand  should  have  travelled,  and  felt 


THE   SILVER  BELL.  403 

the  lesson  and  the  reproach  with  the  deepest  com 
punction.  It  declared  that  she  had  been  estranged 
from  her  Father  in  Heaven,  that  the  love  of  Christ 
had  not  been  in  her,  that  she  had  forgotten  the  pious 
dead,  and  had  given  her  strength  and  her  affections 
to  the  world. 

Tears  of  penitence  gushed  over  her  cheeks  as  the 
unwonted  music  again  broke  upon  her  ear,  and  it 
never  sounded  so  sweet.  That  night  the  spared 
trifler  vowed  a  vow  with  her  prayers.  Youthful 
reader,  what,  think  you,  was  her  vow  ? 

If  you  had  found  by  bitter  experience  that  you 
had  not  sufficient  strength  of  character  to  resist  dan 
gerous  influences,  would  you  think  it  wise  or  right 
to  expose  yourself  to  them  voluntarily  ? 

It  is  one  thing  to  cry  out  against  the  theatre  and 
the  ball-room.  It  is  another  to  ask  you  soberly  to 
examine  yourself  as  to  the  effect  of  the  recreations, 
no  matter  what  they  may  be,  in  which  you  indulge, 
—  the  effect  on  your  own  soul,  your  religious  habits, 
the  individual  spiritual  life.  If  the  sound  of  the  sil 
ver  bell,  leading  you  from  calm  meditation  to  true 
prayer,  might  not  be  heard  each  night  in  your  cham 
ber,  what  would  doom  it  to  silence  ? 

That,  whatever  it  be,  is  wrong  for  you. 


THE     END. 


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